


A Dreamer in a Court of Nightmares

by starswholisten



Series: Mor Prequel [1]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M, Formation of Court of Dreams squad goals, Gen, Mor Prequel, Mor and Rhys brotp feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2016-11-16
Packaged: 2018-07-26 04:02:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 34,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7559326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starswholisten/pseuds/starswholisten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mor was different.<br/>She was more powerful than the other females. More powerful than even the males.<br/>She was a dreamer trapped in a Court of Nightmares, with a family who would use her for that power.</p><p>When Mor's full power is unleashed and her family sells her to the Autumn Court, she won't allow those dreams to shatter. She'll take her future into her own hands.</p><p>A multi-chapter prequel to the A Court of Thorns and Roses series by Sarah J. Maas.</p><p>**THIS FIC IS COMPLETE.**</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Nightmare And The Dreamer

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone!  
> Here's the preface and first chapter of my Mor Prequel!!  
> I love Mor and all of my Inner Circle babies, and with Sarah's recent announcement of the new additions to the ACOTAR series, I'm PRAYING one of those books will be an Inner Circle prequel.  
> And while I'm sitting here crossing my fingers and waiting for 2018(19,20,21), here's my own take on Mor's story!  
> This will be my first multi-chapter fic (ah) so I hope you all will enjoy it!  
> P.S. As of now it will have 12 chapters, but that's already changed twice, so it will probably be more...

Preface: _The Nightmare_

There was blood everywhere.  
  
It coated her hands, her stomach, her thighs – it even dripped slowly, morosely from her pale face.  
  
She couldn’t see the blood, but she could _feel_ it. It was dark and warm, thick and fresh, coating her body, mind, and soul as she stood in silent horror in front of the clouded mirror. As much as she squinted, blinking blood from her eyes, she just couldn’t see.  
  
She squirmed, trying as hard as she could to wipe it off, wash it off, Cauldron, just _get it off_. It was definitely her blood, but she wasn’t injured, she couldn’t find any wounds on her body to heal with her powers, yet she was still _bleeding_ –  
  
Suddenly the mirror cleared, and she rushed up to it, bracing the sides with bloodied fingers. And then she saw herself, clean, yet still crawling with the feeling of the sticky gore coating her body. Clean, if not for the chains around her neck, her wrists, in a crown atop her head… chains made of ash…

Mor nearly fell out of her bed as she awoke from the nightmare, shaking, catching herself only as she banged her head on her nightstand. She swore, gently rubbing the already yellowing bruise, scrambling to make sense of her surroundings.  
  
She was in her bed at her family’s home in the Hewn City. It was just before dawn, according to the daylight simulation she’d created in her makeshift window. Mor sighed and almost forgot her nightmare until she realized her sheets were utterly soaked.  
  
“No,” she scrambled up into a sitting position and began frantically tearing blankets and sheets off of her bed. “No, no, no, no –”  
  
Sweat. It was just _sweat_. She looked down at her pure white sheets and closed her eyes with momentary relief. She wasn’t covered in blood.  
  
Not this morning.  
  
But, one morning soon, she’d wake up and her nightmare would become reality. And her powers, already stronger than most High Fae males, would awaken with full force. And she’d be sold to the highest bidder.  
  
But that wouldn’t be today.  
  
Mor flopped back down onto her pillows and she did not fall back asleep.

\------

Chapter One: _The Dreamer_

For a girl with golden hair and a sunny personality, Mor rarely saw the sun.  
  
Unlike most people living in the Night Court, she actually _liked_ the sun. Whenever her father stepped outside during the daytime, he constantly complained about the heat and the overbearing glare. But no, the sun only made Mor feel joyful, and wild, and free.  
  
Although, in her father’s eyes, she wasn’t allowed to be any of those things. Maybe that’s why he tried to keep her from this particular star.

After the events of that morning, Mor had needed an escape. Following a rather vicious encounter with a curious maid inquiring about her damp sheets – an encounter that ended with a smoldering lampshade and many pleading words to the maid to not tell her father – Mor had locked herself in her room. She knew no one would come looking for her until nighttime, so she had shut her eyes tightly, concentrating with all her power to winnow to her favorite place.

Velaris. The City of Starlight. The hidden gem of the Night Court, where the people could live without threat. The city was Mor’s soul-bonded and her dreams come true. Here, she was happy. Here, she was free.

She spent the day wandering the artist’s sector of Velaris, taking in the magnificent street vendors displaying paintings of all kinds and selling their handicrafts. She didn’t have any money of her own, so she simply passed the time admiring the art and pining in particular after the handcrafted jewelry. Later in the afternoon, munching on a free sample of pastry from a nearby bakery, she paused to watch street entertainers perform traditional Night Court dances.

Fae didn’t dance like _this_ in the Hewn City.

Despite the many formal occasions and court functions she’d had to attend with her family, Mor only ever experienced this kind of dance in Velaris. To spin freely and gracefully, both arms in the air, as a male caught you around the waist to lead you in a waltz – this was not the way of the Hewn City. There, males gyrated to the vulgar music and the females, submissive, bumped and twisted against them. Mor thought this dancing was much more elegant, much more fun.

Mor wanted so badly to join them.

Suddenly, as if in answer to her wish, the male dancers began to fan out to select new partners at random from the crowd. One, a taller male with brassy brown curls, stopped in front of Mor, bowed his head, and held out his hand to her. Smiling, she took it, and he led her in a graceful dance around and around the square. The wind whipped at her golden hair as she moved in time with the melody. She laughed, the skirts of her modest lavender dress streaming behind her, and took great care not to trample on the dancer’s feet. When the song was over, he bowed again, lifted her left hand to his mouth, and kissed it gently. He smiled at her before waltzing off to a new partner to start a new routine. Windswept and panting, Mor took a seat on a bench on the edge of the square and continued watching the performance.

When the performers finished, the crowds dispersed and the sun started to sink over the horizon. Mor, deciding she needed a better view, slipped down an empty alley, closed her eyes tightly, and winnowed far, far up above Velaris. She was one of few who could winnow to this location, and she’d be wrong not to take advantage of it for that night’s sunset.

Mor leaned into the edge of the balcony at the House of Wind, her hair catching the light of that beautiful setting sun as it flowed over her shoulder. The sky was a swirl of pink and red and orange over Velaris, and she could already see the moon peeking into the sky. Her lips parted slightly at the sight, and she was so taken by its magnificence that even her heightened Fae senses didn’t hear the approaching male behind her.

“You’ve been alive for seventeen years,” Mor jumped as her cousin whispered into her ear, nearly making her stumble over the edge of the balcony. Rhysand swirled to her left side in that bat-like demeanor of his and she scowled at him. “And every time you come up here,” he continued, “you act like the sunset is the first you’ve ever seen.”  
  
Rhys smirked and Mor shoved him squarely in his muscular chest. “ _You’ve_ been alive seventeen years, and you still haven’t learned how not to be a _prick_.”  
  
“And I doubt I ever will,” Rhys chuckled as he leaned on the balcony to take a look at the sky for himself. Mor turned back to face the city below, and the cousins were silent for a moment, taking in the view together.

They’d spent many an evening in this exact spot, on the balcony of Rhys’ home, gazing down at the city as if its skyline held the answers to all of their questions. From childhood, the pair had taken turns sharing their craziest, wildest dreams with each other as they sipped stolen sparkling wine straight from the bottle. They’d steal seat cushions from the patio and sleep up here, staying up late into the night watching the stars over Velaris. The first time they did that, Rhys laughed at Mor when she shared that she was afraid to fall off the balcony while she slept.  
  
Little did he know that she often thrashed around during her nightmares.

As Rhys and Mor grew older, they only grew closer. They were as inseparable as siblings – they were the closest thing either one had to a sibling, anyway – and their family knew it, too. As their powers started to mature, they were the only ones who understood how it felt to develop targets on their backs because of it, from rivals and family alike.

“I wish you could stay up here for Starfall tonight,” Rhys sighed, adjusting the collar of his shirt with his hands while his elbows remained resting on the balcony. “You know the view is so much better from this balcony.”  
  
“I’m sure you’ll find a pretty female to share it with – one who isn’t related to you,” she quipped, punching him gently in the arm.  
  
“No, dearest cousin. Only the most _special_ females get an invite to this balcony. Only family or, say, my mate would ever see Starfall from up here.”  
Mor snorted, turning to face Rhys. “You, with a mate. What a disaster that would be.”  
  
“What do you mean? I’m incredibly attractive,” he ran a hand through his sleek, black hair, as if it would emphasize his point. “If I have a mate, she won’t be able to resist.”  
  
“Not with your little brainwashing tricks, she won’t.”  
  
Rhys smirked at her, but didn’t deign a response.

Mor looked back to the sky, the corners of her mouth lightly turning up. In truth, she wanted more than anything to stay in Velaris for Starfall. She hated watching the falling star-spirits of the Night Court’s most beloved holiday from the outskirts of her own home in the Hewn City. The mountain that contained the dark metropolis blocked much of the view, and the cretins who dwelled there rarely stayed out to watch for more than an hour. Mor always wanted to watch all night long. She wanted to dance with her cousin and his friends under the falling stars, spinning like the street performers had done earlier that day. But, this year, she’d have to observe revolting males engaged in so-called dance from the dais of her family's mostly unused ballroom, squirming in disgust next to her mother and father.  
  
Males who might be making a bid on her at this very moment.

Mor shook her head slowly and turned again to look at her cousin, eyes pleading. “There’s no way –”  
  
“No,” Rhys said, with what Mor knew to be a great difficulty, and she averted her gaze from his guilty expression. “Mother already tried convincing my father. He merely gave an excuse about it being more trouble with your father than it was worth.” Rhys laid a calloused hand briefly on her forearm in comfort, and his facial features darkened. “If it were up to me,” he said cryptically, “you know I’d never allow this. Keir wouldn’t even think to cause any trouble once I was through with him.”

Mor smiled softly. Her cousin could be so dramatic. He wasn’t High Lord – not yet, not for a long while – and he didn’t yet understand how to make small sacrifices for the good of his people, as his father was doing in this situation.

Rhys removed his hand gently from her arms and turned to leave the balcony. “We should probably get you back to the Hewn City before dark, or your father will throw a hissy fit.”  
  
“Wouldn’t that be amusing to witness,” Mor joked half-heartedly, struggling to peel her eyes away from the sun melting into the horizon. She managed, ripping her gaze from the sky as she followed Rhys down from the balcony.

They entered the patio of the home of the High Lord’s immediate family, servants of all kinds already bustling about in preparation for the party thrown every year for Starfall. Mor smelled meat roasting and desserts baking, and she almost fell over from the desire to consume them all. Would she even get to eat tonight, or did she have to remain on display all evening, a work of art for sale, a pig prepared for slaughter? Her stomach churned and rumbled at the same time with the thought.

As Mor fought the urge to storm into the kitchens and hide there forever, Rhys’ mother appeared from within the dining room and she smiled gently at her son and niece. She approached them, her wavy black hair bouncing against the truly magnificent Illyrian wings at her back. The wings her High Lord had saved, the wings her son had inherited and could summon at will. The wings that gave her freedom. Mor admired them, envied them.  
  
“Mor, dear,” Lady Iorea breathed, her eyes softening with remorse. “I so wish you could join us tonight. I tried, but the High Lord, he –” she took Mor’s hands in hers and sighed. “You know he would do what he could for you. He loves his favorite niece.” She squeezed Mor’s hands gently. “As do I. He just can’t isolate your family right now.”  
  
“I know. I understand,” Mor squeezed her hands in return before letting go and turning to her cousin.  
  
“I’ll be back in the morning to fill you in,” she grumbled, making a face.  
  
“Not before noon, please,” he requested, smirking. “It’s going to be a late night.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah. See you tomorrow.”  
  
Rhys clapped her on the shoulder as Iorea kissed her cheek. Mor took a deep breath, shut her eyes, and winnowed back to her room in the Hewn City.  
  
Only to find her father sitting on her bed, eyes stone-cold as death.  
  
Shit.


	2. Lover Of The Light

Dressed head to toe in the darkest grey, Keir blended eerily into the darkness of Mor’s unlit bedroom.  
  
“Where have you been?”  
  
Mor shifted uncomfortably on her feet and tried not to meet her father’s gaze. If Keir had noticed that his daughter had just winnowed into her room, he made no comment on the matter.  
  
“I spent the day in Velaris. I didn’t realize I was a prisoner.”  
  
Her father gave her an aggravated look, examining her from head to toe and taking in her disheveled blonde hair and sweat-stained dress sleeves. His nose scrunched up in disgust and a brief expression of rage passed over his face. “Do I smell another male on you, Morrigan?”  
  
She sighed, exasperated. _Here we go_ , she thought, bracing herself for another one of her father’s grand lectures.

“Yes. I was with Rhys. Please,” Mor finally found the strength to move from her position in the middle of the room and strolled over to her sizeable closet, still not looking at Keir. “I’m back in time for your stupid party, aren’t I? Now let me get ready so I look _presentable_ for your little guests.” She motioned at the lanterns on her dresser with her hand to light up the room. Small bits of magic here and there wouldn’t alarm her father, as she was expected to have _some_ magic, but her heart was still racing with anxiety from him witnessing her ability to winnow.  
  
Covering his eyes from the sudden display of light, Keir stood up from the bed, hands balled into fists at his side. “Morrigan, I know what your cousin smells like. I smell _another_ male on you.”

Mor huffed, running a hand through her hair, and almost began to argue that he was crazy, that Rhys had been the only male she’d interacted with all day… until she remembered the street performance. And the dancer with the brown curls, who had been pressed close to her. Who had spun her and kissed her hand. His scent must be all over her.

Her core tightened, restricting her airflow. This always happened when she wanted to lie outright, for some reason. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t avoid the subject altogether. She bit her bottom lit and spun to meet her father’s angry gaze. “The city was crowded today. It’s Starfall. I must’ve brushed against someone.”

“Cauldron, Morrigan, if I find out that you went out on this, of all nights, and _soiled_ –” he shut his mouth abruptly and blew out a sharp breath in frustration. He walked toward her swiftly, and grabbed her not-at-all gently under the chin. Mor winced at the sudden contact and stiffened, but could not break away from her father’s eye contact as he sneered at her. “Take a bath. This is an important night for us, and I won’t have potential allies smelling some –” he paused and sniffed her once again, his nostrils flaring, “– some _city-dweller_ on my unclaimed daughter.”  
  
Keir released her face with a flick of his hand and stormed out the door without another word.

As soon as the door closed, Mor sank back against her closet and let out the breath she’d been holding. That was her riskiest encounter with her father since she’d gone out in Velaris with Rhys last year, gotten wildly drunk, and kissed a bartender at Rita’s. Even though she hadn’t returned until three days (and three baths) later, her father had still smelled her up and down with the same crinkled nose, suspicious that someone had tampered with his pure, pristine possession.

It wasn’t news to Mor that this is how her father viewed her. He was a man who rarely showed affection, even to his own wife. He was a high ranking ruling-class cousin of a High Lord with motivation only for power and position. Mor had been born to be sold off, a bargaining chip for alliances, political prestige, and powerful heirs.

But she’d be Cauldron damned if he thought she wouldn’t fight tooth and nail against that expectation.

An hour later, Mor was fuming even more than she had been when her father left her bed chamber. She was sitting in front of her mirror with three maids scrambling about around her, playing with her hair and adjusting her jewelry and fussing with her dress. She could push them all away with a thought if she tried hard enough, but she knew that would only get her so far. Every single person in the damned Hewn City knew where she was supposed to be tonight, and she’d end up there whether she wanted to or not. She should have stayed in the House of Wind, damn the consequences.

Mor had chosen a random black, sparkly thing from her closet to wear that night, adjusting the neckline with her magic to plunge much farther than intended just to spite her father. But when her maids had come to escort her to the party, they’d almost fallen over in offense at her promiscuity and had made her change into something more _appropriate_.

She was now wearing a modest gown of pure ivory that shimmered lightly at the bodice, but came so high on her neckline that she felt she would choke and die if she lost any semblance of posture. Maybe that made it the perfect dress.

Her hair, originally down, was now piled into a neat up-do on top of her head, unnaturally coiffed at the front and tightly bound in the back. She heaved an enormous sign as a maid adjusted a stray curl for the thousandth time and she finally stood up, stopping them all in their tracks. She momentarily shook off her frustration and turned to one of them. “I’m ready. Now, please go dress yourselves before you miss Starfall entirely.” She emphasized her declaration with a nod at the door and a light smile, and the maids scurried away, one adjusting Mor’s skirt one last time before departing.

She looked in the mirror one last time, quickly ruffled the back of her hair so half the curls fell out, and smirked before departing herself.

Mor’s mother met her in the hallway, looking annoyed and inconvenienced. She was wearing a matronly gown of deep purple, her close-cropped straight hair untouched. She frowned at her daughter. “You look…” she trailed off, narrowing her eyes at Mor’s hair. “Decent. Come.”

Mor bit her tongue to hold back a retort and shuffled along after her oh-so doting mother.

“Now, Morrigan,” her mother snapped, leading her from their private chambers into the ballroom wing. “You’ve just turned seventeen.” Mor trudged along behind her, not daring to stride too fast lest she wound up walking beside her. Without her father to force her into a subservient temperament, Mor would set her mother aflame with one wrong sidelong glance.

“You _know_ ,” she stopped and turned to face Mor, who begrudgingly checked her self-control upon noticing the thickening crowd of onlookers ahead. “You know you could be a much desired bride. You come from a powerful bloodline. A niece of the High Lord. Your hand is the key to forming a beneficial alliance for your family. This is your duty, as it was mine.” Her mother had no warmth in her eyes as she addressed her daughter. “Soon, should the Mother bless us, you will… mature.” Mor shuddered, suddenly remembering her dream from the night before. “And then you will mean everything, _everything_ to the standing of this family. Remember that, before you try anything heinous tonight.” Her mother turned on her heel and, with all the grace a ruling-class wife could muster, continued to saunter along the corridor. “And adjust your posture, immediately!” she called to Mor behind her.

Mor struggled to keep from rolling her eyes as she unwillingly followed her mother. She could care less about the petty politics of the Hewn City, as they didn’t really mean anything for the betterment of the Night Court and its people. It was all just a game for the ruling class, whose influence didn’t much extend beyond the borders of the underground metropolis. It was a matter of pride for her father to stay on top of this political food chain, for his own direct line had once held the seat of the High Lord. Unfortunately, the Hewn City hadn’t quite caught up with the rest of modernized Prythian society and still considered women the property of their fathers until marriage, so Mor was forced to play a pawn in the game. It was one of many reasons Mor wished she could move to Velaris and never look back.

Mor and her mother met Keir at the doors of the ballroom and entered together, Mor trapped between them. They floated through the crowd of guests, stopping to greet important members of her family’s circle as they made their way to the dais. Keir made an effort to ignore his wife and daughter as he conversed, using Mor and her mother’s silent company as a show of power.

Once they reached the dais, Mor was shown to her seat beside her father, and promptly tuned out for as long as possible.

Male after male approached the dais, kissing her hand, conversing with her father, politely nodding to her mother. They all looked at her with the same feral leer, and she wanted to smack the look off of all of their brutish faces. She was almost disappointed that among all of these supposedly “beneficial” allies, there wasn’t a single one that she could sense had power matched to hers. Maybe it would scare them off. Maybe they wouldn’t want her, once they knew what she could do. After all, in this backward society, it probably wouldn’t look good if your wife could take her husband down with a flick of her wrist.

She smirked, deciding to make a game out of which of the suitors she could terrify the most. She flashed flirtatious eyes at them when they kissed her hand. But, the moment she met their smug, hungry glances as they talked to her father, she stared daggers back as she subtly produced sparks on her finger tips. Their faces were priceless, every single time. Her father, thank the Cauldron, didn’t notice, but her mother glared at her with irritation from his other side.

By the time her parents were leading her out from under the mountain for the display of star-spirits, she had almost convinced herself she was having a good time.

But this, truly, was her favorite part of this night. Now, instead of gawking at her, all of the guests were crawling out of the Hewn City and admiring the sky, where the first star spirits of Starfall had begun to emerge. Mor forgot everything and everyone around her as she looked up into the night. Stars brighter than on any night of the year soared through the atmosphere, colliding with each other and falling into the mountains in the distance. But she couldn’t get the full effect on this side of the mountain. She glanced around her, surprised to find herself without supervision. Her parents had stepped away to mingle with another aristocratic family, far enough away that they might not notice if Mor slipped away for a little bit.

Feeling audacious, she walked off behind a rather large boulder, shut her eyes, and winnowed.

From the mountain peak directly above the Hewn City, the view was… breathtaking. She sighed as she sat down in a bed of dewy grass, not caring or even remembering that she was wearing white. Her parents and their cohorts were dots beneath her, and the stars were larger than life, seeming close enough for her to touch.

But they weren’t stars – not really. Rhys had told her long ago that they were migrating spirits. She liked to think they were embodiments of the spirits of Fae past, present, and future, searching for their destiny. She liked to think that maybe her star-spirit was up there, flying about, free to choose her own path. Gazing at the sky, she began to dream.  
  
She dreamed her star-spirit might lead a group of others in a majestic dive toward the horizon.  
  
She dreamed her star-spirit would decide for itself whether to glide to the left or to the right.  
  
She dreamed her star-spirit could shine brighter than any of the others.  
  
These stars could incite just about any fantasy in her mind and make it seem like truth, when in reality, the fantasies would only ever be dreams.  
  
Because, in a court of nightmares, dreams could not win.

It proved true when the spirits thinned out and ceased their falling before dawn had even emerged.

It proved true when her father found her, hours later, sneaking back into the house, and smacked her across the face for disappearing and “embarrassing” him.

And it proved true when Mor awoke the next morning, her sheets drenched in blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from the Mumford & Sons song of the same name.


	3. The Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, this fic is going to be a lot longer than I planned. I meant to write one chapter, but didn't even get to the plot point I wanted to with two chapters.  
> Anyway, two chapters for your soul today. Enjoy!

She couldn’t hide it. The stain.  
  
Not because she couldn’t incinerate her nightclothes with half a thought. Not because she couldn’t flip her mattress and be done with it.  
  
No, those attempts would be futile, she realized as she began to smell it.  
  
Smell herself. Smell the utter power cascading off her as she stood from the bed and the reality of her situation sunk in.  
  
Her skin was brighter, shining with a subtle, pearly luminescence. Her limbs felt heavier, her blood pumped faster through her body, and gods did she have a headache. She pointed her finger to light her bedside lantern, and it and the table shattered into a million pieces. A stray shard of glass hit her in the face and she yelped in surprise even as it immediately healed over.  
  
And then the mountain began to quake.  
  
The whole _damn mountain_ was shaking so hard that it threw Mor off balance and she fell backwards into her headboard. She slunk to the ground, holding her knees and burying her head between them for the seconds it took for the mountain to stabilize.  
  
She barely had time to lift her head before two of her maids crashed into the bedroom.  
  
“Miss! Are you well? We heard a crash and then the mountain-"  
  
“Amira,” the maid who hadn’t been speaking placed a hand on the other’s arm, nostrils flaring. Mor looked up defeatedly as both maids smelled her. They saw the mess in her sheets, and the second maid ran out, wide-eyed. The other, Amira, made her way to Mor and stopped a few inches away, hesitating. Mor realized she was still radiating whatever power had just fully come into her, and that the maid was… frightened.

Maybe the males under this damned mountain would be frightened too. Surely, none of them would want to marry her now that she could, well, incinerate them with a lazy point of her finger.  
  
Her father would be furious.  
  
Mor smirked to herself.

Gently, Amira reached out and touched her arm, but winced as she placed her other hand on the ground. She’d cut her hand on a shard of glass from the exploded night table. Instinctively, Mor took her hand to inspect the wound, holding it with her own hand - and saw that the gash she was expecting was already healing, scarring, fading at her touch.  
  
Realizing no harm would come to her from being in Mor’s proximity, Amira sighed. Mor shrugged her hand away and stood up, catching the maid in her peripherals examining her nightclothes. “Ah, it’s barely a stain!” she exclaimed. At that declaration, Mor's stomach twisted in a strange manner, and somehow she could tell her maid was lying.  
  
“Come, let’s get you cleaned off,” Amira continued, placing her hand once again on Mor’s now fully healed shoulder. “A seer will want to meet with you straightaway."

Mor groaned. Seers had the ability to, literally, see one’s magic and assess their power. Every female in the Hewn City met with one to determine what kind of match her family would be able to expect for her.  
  
Well, Mor suspected this seer would find that there was _no_ match for her.

After Mor had bathed and the second maid had returned to dress her, Mor sat in the antechamber just off her bedroom chamber and waited. Her whole body still ached and her mouth tasted of copper, only adding to the anxious nausea that rippled through her core. She’d only heard about seers from her already wedded cousins. They’d told her it would be painless - the seer would merely read her (whatever that meant), ask her a few questions, and report back to her parents. But, deep down, Mor feared for the seer. After all, he might have to tell her father that Mor could not be well matched, that it would be near impossible to find anyone who would want her powers as a liability. Which was fine with her, but her father could be cruel to the messengers of bad news.

A knock sounded on the door, and a maid walked through the door of the anteroom, a tall male High Fae in tow. He was dressed professionally and had nothing with him but the clothes on his back. He sat across from Mor and the maid stepped invisibly into the corner, ever the chaperone of Mor and any male she came into contact with.  
  
“Lady Morrigan. My name is Hywel, and I’ll be seeing you this afternoon.” He held out his hand to her and Mor shook it reluctantly. “I understand you’ve only just come into your full power?"  
  
“This morning,” Mor mumbled as he sat across from her, and her maid looked stricken at her lack of manners.  
  
“Ah. I see.” He crossed one leg over the other. "And how long have you been experiencing your magic?"  
  
Mor mulled the question over in her head for a moment. “Since I was eight years old? Maybe nine?"  
  
“Mmm.” The seer just looked at her with narrowed eyes, one hand on his chin and the other resting on the arm of his chair. She tested keeping eye contact with him to see if it would startle him, but he only stared deeper. Mor moved to look down at her hands, instead.  
  
“I see darkness in you,” Hywel almost whispered. “But I also see light. Tell me, Morrigan, do you have the healing magic in you?"  
  
“I- I’ve healed myself before…” She had no idea why she was telling him this. The only one who knew that was Rhys.  
  
“Ah. I feel you may have that power.” He did not elaborate. Mor just gaped at him. “Can you winnow?"  
  
“Yes.” Again, she wasn’t sure what compelled her to answer his questions.  
  
“And, Morrigan, can you lie?"  
  
This question startled her. She sat up straighter in her chair and looked at him nervously. “What do you mean, ‘can I lie’? Is that an ability one must have magic for?"  
  
“Ah,” the seer smiled, as if her question was an answer in-and-of itself.  
  
Mor waited. Hywel continued to study her with a look of amusement, and Mor couldn’t take the anticipation. “Sir, I’m not following you. Can you tell me what in the name of the Mother you’re on about?"  
  
Her maid whimpered in embarrassment at her tone from the corner of the room, but Mor ignored her. The seer was still smiling.  
  
“Morrigan, I believe you have a rare power. The power of truth."  
  
Truth. What did that mean, truth? She raised an eyebrow at him and urged him to continue.  
  
“Your word is truth,” he mused. "You have the ability to obtain and preserve absolute truth - secret truths even - in many forms. You can hide truths, reveal them. You can sense when a truth is being withheld. It is a very powerful ability, Morrigan. It may even go beyond the bounds I have stated, I cannot know for sure. Your gift is a rare one - only once in a generation is The Truth reborn. One of your forefathers had this gift, and it has passed to you."  
  
Mor just stared at him, trying to contemplate all that he had just laid in front of her. This was why her stomach churned when she tried to lie, why she had known when her maid had lied to her that morning, why she answered Hywel’s questions so directly. Memories flooded her brain as she recalled all of the many times this power had come out.  
  
“Can I not lie, then?” she asked, remembering his earlier question.  
  
“Oh, you can certainly lie. Anyone can twist words, avoid answering questions, obscure meaning. An outright lie might simply cost you."  
  
“Cost me? In what way?"  
  
“That, my dear, is for you to discover."  
  
With that, the seer stood and walked around to the back of his chair. He swirled around one last time, bracing his hands on the headrest, and leaned toward Mor. “Your powers are incredible, Morrigan. You have the power of shadows and darkness, from your Night Court heritage. You have the power of light, from deep within your soul. And you have the power of Truth, a blessing from the Cauldron itself. You are more powerful than many High Fae I have met, males included.” He stood up straighter, brushing dust off of the chair as he went. "Take caution of those who will use you for it,” he added cryptically, and made for the exit, the maid scrambling behind him.

Mor didn’t realize she’d been holding in a breath until she let it out forcefully, suddenly remembering the exact purpose of Hywel’s visit. “Wait,” she called after him, and he turned, the maid almost colliding with his backside. “Does this mean there is not a male in Hewn City with a power to match mine?"  
  
“I don’t believe there is. Still, heed my advice, Morrigan."  
  
And he was gone.

That was it, then. Mor’s powers were strong, after all. Stronger than even she’d known. She hadn’t even known there _was_ this “Truth” power to hide all along, and she had been worrying about her father finding out she could winnow.  
  
What did it all mean? Mor got up and began to pace around the room, contemplating her situation.  
  
She was powerful. More so than any other female. More so than the males.  
  
No matter than she didn’t even know how to control her power yet. She would.  
  
She could see through any of them. She could literally extract their darkest secrets. Secrets that, in this court, are worth more than any physical or monetary gain.  
  
She’d been concerned with an abundance of physical power, but nothing could defeat or control as this power could. Who would want to marry someone who could destroy them, inside and out?


	4. Playing Games With Smoke

“So your power is like mine."  
  
“Yes and no,” Mor told Rhys, who was sitting on her bed. “I can’t read minds, or scramble them. I can just read… intentions. Truth, lies, secrets."  
  
Rhys contemplated Mor, who was sitting across from him on a stool. After Mor hadn’t shown up at the House of Wind to tell him about how Starfall went, Rhys had sent her three notes to her room asking where she was. She hadn’t gotten them, having been with the seer, so she came back to her bedroom to find Rhys sprawled on her (freshly made) bed asking her where her nightstand had gone.  
  
She told him the whole mortifying story - the suitors at Starfall, the mountain shaking, and of course, everything the seer had told her about her power.  
  
“I have never even heard of a Fae with your power, Mor,” Rhys confessed, clasping his hands together. “It is not of the Night Court. It is not of any court. I have no idea where it could come from."  
  
“The seer said The Truth is ‘reborn’ once a generation. That one of our forefathers had it. It could have been thousands of years since the last time someone had my power."  
  
“Maybe it was whoever originally held the Veritas?”  
  
Mor nodded, deep in thought. The Veritas. Mor had not even considered the connection between her old family heirloom, an orb that could show truth and secrets, and her own power. There must be a familial link.  
  
As the cousins pondered her powers, a knock sounded on the door and Amira slipped inside.  
  
“Morrigan - ah, young Lord Rhysand! It is nice to see you again,” the maid nodded her head at the High Lord’s son and turned her attention back to Mor. “Your parents request your presence in their personal chambers, miss."

Mor ran a hand through her long blonde hair and stood, patting her cousin’s leg. “I’ll be back. If not,” she added, seeing the look of doubt on Rhys’s face, “I’ll let Amira know to tell you where I’ve ended up."

Rhys nodded and Mor stuck her tongue out at him as she left the room.

Mor walked the way to her parents’ chambers alone, cherishing the moment of peace. As she entered the foyer, her skin began to crawl with anxiety, and she wished she’d worn a more comfortable dress.  
  
The room was empty, save for Mor and one servant. It made the room seem bleak and unused, though she knew these were the parents’ most frequented chambers. There were three paintings on each of the indigo walls, all framed with the same black metal, featuring various Night Court art. In the center of the room was a black fur rug on the wood floor surrounded by a black velvet chaise and two black velvet armchairs. Mor took a deep breath and crossed the room, flopping down on the chaise as her parents entered through a side door. They wordlessly took the armchairs across from Mor, and she felt almost claustrophobic despite the size of the room. Her mother’s gaze was stony, but her father almost looked pleased.

“Morrigan."  
  
“Father. Mother.” Mor focused her gaze on a particularly interesting spot on the floor.  
  
“Adjust your posture, Morrigan-"  
  
“Deva, please,” her father interrupted, and she could feel his eyes boring into the top of her head. “This is a celebratory moment."  
  
Mor looked up at that and cast a cold glance in her father’s direction. “Celebratory how?"  
  
“Well,” Keir sat up straighter in his chair and pulled his arms across his chest. “Your true power has awakened, dear daughter. The whole of Hewn City could smell it, _feel_ it.” Keir’s words made her feel exposed, and she hugged herself around the waist. “The seer has already informed us of its extent, and it is… more than we expected.”  
  
Mor couldn’t quite sense disappointment in her father’s tone, or even fear. There was another strong emotion there, and she couldn’t pinpoint it. She looked at his face and was surprised to find him smiling.  
  
“The Truth, in our bloodline once again. It is more than we could have hoped for."  
  
Mor jolted at her father’s words. More than they _hoped_ for?  
  
“Your father’s just spent the last two hours in his quarters, receiving dozens of bids for your hand, Morrigan,” her mother interjected, no trace of emotion in her words, as usual.  
  
Mor’s heart stopped.  
  
Her father met Deva’s gaze momentarily, to scold her for interrupting, no doubt, before continuing. “It is true. I’ve received one from nearly every ruling class family in this city. Young, old, weak, powerful, you’ve got quite the line of suitors now."  
  
Mor could feel her hands start to shake, and she was suddenly dizzy. She couldn’t speak.  
  
“Of course, none of those males are rightfully matched to my daughter. No, she would obliterate them, according to Hywel."  
  
Mor breathed shallowly, but her father still didn’t sound as incensed as she expected him to be. There was something he wasn’t telling her, and she would have known that, truth power or not.  
  
“So, am I unfit to marry, then?” she dared to ask, and her father’s eyes darkened in a way she’d only ever seen when he was making a particularly beneficial power play at court.  
  
Mor looked from her mother to her father, waiting for an answer. She only realized she was gripping the end of the chair when her palm, sweaty, slipped off the end and hit her knee.  
  
“Mor, you are unfit to marry anyone in this court,” Keir stated. “Which is why we’ve begun looking beyond the Hewn City. Beyond the Night Court."  
  
Beyond...  
  
_Beyond_ the Night Court?  
  
As much as Mor hated the Hewn City, the Night Court was home. She thought of Velaris, of the House of Wind, of Rhys, and she paled.  
“We’ve had an offer from the Autumn Court, Morrigan. From the High Lord of the Autumn Court."  
  
No. _No.  
_  
“Beron’s eldest son, Eris, is seeking a bride. He is very powerful. _Very._ He can incinerate an entire forest with a blink of his eye. He will make a great High Lord one day,” Keir continued, a twinkle in his eye. “And you will be his Lady."  
  
“No,” Mor said, half-dazed, not caring how angry her parents would be at her refusal. She’d heard things about the Autumn Court. Their power was fire, and they had a knack of using it for evil rather than good. The Autumn Court could burn enemies, castles, kingdoms to the ground, if they so pleased. They were cruel to their lesser faeries and crueler to those who would defy their ‘traditions’. And Eris… Rhys had told her about his one interaction with the other son of a High Lord. It had not gone well, to say the least, and had made for even rockier relations between Night and Autumn where conflict had already existed for centuries. “No. I can’t - I won't marry him."  
  
“You will.” Keir leaned forward in his seat, his expression hard as stone. “The Autumn Court has much to offer us in the way of an alliance. Their relationship with the Night Court has never been pleasant, but this match may lead us to greater economic trade, military cooperation, other things you wouldn’t understand.” His condescension made Mor’s skin burn with fury. “Your son with Eris would rule the Autumn Court one day. And above all, with both of your powers united in one heir…” he paused and his eyes twinkled reverently. “There would be no stopping the combined power of Night and Autumn. Should war come, should conflict arise, this union will mean everything. So yes, Morrigan, you will marry him, and it will be officially announced when the High Lord holds court in two days time, at which point you will formally meet your betrothed."  
  
“You can’t make me do this. You can’t make me marry him. He’s cruel, father.” Mor stood up, anger flooding her veins. “His whole family is cruel! We don’t need an alliance with a court like theirs. If I have to marry, if I _must_ , I will. But let me choose, father. You don’t have to _sell_ me to Autumn-"  
“Don’t presume to tell me,” her father spat with lethal calm, “that you know anything about the way this court is run."  
  
Mor glared daggers at him, her mother stoic as ever at her father’s side. Did she really want her daughter marrying into that cruel family? As much as her mother stayed silent and enforced obedience, surely she wouldn’t want harm to come to her only child. But she couldn’t even meet Mor’s eye.  
  
“If you think the High Lord will approve this-"  
  
“He already has,” Keir sat back in his chair, victorious. “I received his blessing not moments before I summoned you here."  
  
“But Rhys-"  
  
“Rhys is not High Lord, Morrigan. It’s about time you learned that."  
  
“We’ll see about that,” Mor stormed out of the room, and her parents didn’t stop her.

Eris. _Eris of the Autumn Court._ Cauldron, how could she be so dense as to think they’d fear her power, rather than desire it?  
  
She would have to make them fear it. Oh yes, she wasn’t going down without a fight.  
  
Rhys would never let this happen. Rhys would end this. And then Keir wouldn’t be able to say a thing, and Mor would show her father just how powerful she could be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title is inspired by Smoke by PVRIS.


	5. The Sun Is Gone

Mor stormed directly to her bedchamber to find it empty.

She spun around in the doorway and craned her neck in both directions. “Where’s Rhys?” she demanded of the two maids milling about in the hallway, but both shrugged at her and scattered. Mor grunted in frustration, slammed her bedroom door, and fell onto her bed, her face burning with anger.

Her mind kept racing and repeating his name: _Eris. Eris. Eris of the Autumn Court._

She would never be free. She would be his _Lady_ \- a fancy term for a slave - and she would tend his household and keep his correspondences and push out his heirs. She’d be expected to disappear when told, keep a proper image, and obey, obey, _obey_. She’d be a prisoner, eternally stuck in one season and one home and one lifestyle that she would never, ever enjoy.

Forget Velaris sunsets. Forget dancing freely with friends and strangers alike. Forget making her own decisions or doing anything productive or being with anyone she actually loved. Forget laughing and smiling and being happy.

There was a reason Autumn was the season of death and dying, she realized.

And where in the _Mother_ was her cousin when she needed him?

Mor viciously rubbed her eyes and rolled over on her bed, summoning a pen and paper to her. She scribbled a quick note to Rhysand ( _Where the hell are you? S.O.S._ ) and it vanished with a spark from her hand.

His reply came almost instantly. _Called back to the camp. Surprise mandatory drills. Everything okay?_

Mor only realized she was sobbing when she went to take a breath and hiccuped instead. A tear fell onto the paper. _Not in immediate danger. But no, I’m not okay._ The paper vanished before she could dry the teardrop from it.

_I’ll come back tonight. Should I bring booze?_

Mor managed a laugh at his response. _The strongest you can find, cousin._

\--

Mor awoke to the sound of voices in the hallway outside of her room. She must have dozed off for several hours contemplating her possible escape plans and waiting for Rhys to return, because her window simulators were indicating that it was well past dusk. She stirred, wiping damp blonde hair out of her face, as the voices grew louder. She jolted up suddenly when she realized who the voices belonged to.

“You cannot just show up in my house, I don’t care who your father is-"  
“ _You_ cannot lock her away as if she’s a common criminal-"  
“Don’t assume you know what’s best for my daughter-"  
“I’m the only one who even _cares_ about her. Seriously, Keir, Eris of the Autumn Court? He’ll treat her like cattle, like target practice-"  
“GET. OUT. OF. MY. HOUSE."  
“Keir, you may be my uncle, but recognize who you’re talking to. I am your High Lord’s _heir_ -"  
“And you are _not_ my High Lord, not yet, so leave me to govern my city while you gallivant in those bastardly war camps-"

Mor heard a crash and a thud. Her head was spinning so hard with the heated argument between Rhysand and her father happening outside the door that she hadn’t realized she was now standing. She had to end this before it got violent, for she knew what Rhys would do to her father if he pushed him too hard, and Rhys would not forgive himself for being reckless. She ran to the door and made to push it open-

To find it locked.  
She jiggled the door knob. Tried to rip it off. It didn’t budge.

“Try me, Rhysand."

She tried to winnow - nothing.  
Her magic felt contained. Gone.

“RHYS!"

The shouting outside stopped abruptly. “Mor!” She heard her cousin growl and another thud as someone - assumedly her father - fell to the floor. “Mor, I’m going to get you out of there.”

“Rhys, please,” she cried, banging on the door. “Please put an end to this."

She heard footsteps, and then another crash. “Keir, I swear to the Cauldron you’ll regret this. I’m going straight to my father and-"

“Your father’s given his blessing, Rhysand. Quit the dramatics."

Mor heard him unleash another growl and could physically feel the change in space, even through the spell-locked door, as he unleashed his shadows on her father. “You’re proof that this city of bile has too much power. Maybe my father will see it the same way.” Mor flinched at the thunderous crack in space as Rhys winnowed out of her house, hopefully straight to the House of Wind as he promised.

Keir didn’t even deign to check on her, to tell her what was happening. His footsteps faded out as Mor threw herself at the door, pounding and hitting and striking it to no avail.

She was trapped. How fitting.

“Please,” she sobbed to the empty room. “Please."

\--

Two days passed with no information. Rhys could not get messages into the spell-locked room, and he did not return, to her knowledge. She was still locked away, a stubbornly silent maid delivering meals to her thrice a day. She didn’t eat a single one, but threatened the maid at the doorway the second morning with a sharpened steak bone. Without access to her magic, however, she was exceptionally weak, and there were no more meals with bones after that.

On the second night, Amira was the one to deliver her dinner, and Mor perked up from her spot on the floor as she recognized the familiar face.

“Oh, honey, you look dreadful. Let me draw a bath for you.” Mor frowned as the maid scurried into the bathing room, leaving her meal on her dresser.

“Why did they send you? Or will you not answer any of my questions, either?” she called after her.

Amira strolled back into the main chamber and over to Mor, putting her hand on her shoulder. “Questions won’t be necessary. Your temporary holding will soon be lifted.” Mor rolled her eyes. What equivocal language for describing imprisonment. Was this her life now? “You are to be betrothed this evening. Please bathe, and don’t make this harder than it has to be."

“And if I refuse?” Mor addressed the question to the floor.

“I don’t believe your father will let you out of here if you refuse,” Amira said sadly.

And because Mor would be trapped, enslaved, imprisoned either way, she reluctantly dragged herself to the bath. At least this way she might be able to find Rhys.

Amira helped her bathe, styled her hair, and dressed her in a gown of burnt orange. It hugged her curves but had a modest neckline, beaded with amber jewels and rubies. It made her hair glow golden, and would have been breathtaking had it not been for the obvious homage to the colors of Autumn.

As soon as Amira opened her bedroom door, Mor felt her powers slam back into her, and nearly stumbled over the threshold. It was in that moment of weakness that they were greeted with three other maids outside the bed chamber, one of whom slipped a bracelet of stone onto her left wrist. Her powers immediately withered again. She grasped the bracelet, attempting to pull it off - but to no avail. It required magic.

The four maids led Mor out of her home and into the Hewn City itself. Hoards of High Fae were walking in the same direction, most ignoring her presence as they kept mostly to themselves. As Mor walked past the stone buildings and walls that encased her within her underground prison, she couldn’t breathe. The paintings in the stone haunted her - images of powerful Fae males in battle and damsels in distress clouded her vision, every depiction of dancing and celebration suffocated her, and the more vulgar images sent horrified chills down her spine.

The maids and Mor reached the gates of the High Lord’s official seat without a sound, and Mor could hear her heart beating in her ears. She cringed as she stepped through the gates, the beasts carved into them threatening to devour her. She welcomed it.

The halls seemed to swallow her whole as she descended, and the crowds of darkly dressed Fae made her feel like an ember about to explode into a full blown fire. She would have done so had it not been for the bracelet restricting her power, the core of her very being.

She recognized distant cousins and their spouses, former friends married off long ago mere days after their initial bleedings, and even those who had introduced themselves as suitors at Starfall.

Maids flanking her, two on each side, Mor finally reached the throne room, feeling incredibly small at the sight of Rhysand’s father’s ebony throne on the dais. She spotted her father and mother in a corner, but saw Rhysand’s dark head in the crowd first. She burst from the circle of maids before they could react.

“Rhys!” He looked up upon hearing his name and his eyes lit with concern and panic as Mor flung herself into his arms. He held her for a moment, and then pushed her an arms length away to look into her face. “Rhys, what’s going on? Did your father-"

She stopped talking at the look of sheer shame on Rhys’s face. She swallowed, hard, tears forming in her eyes.

“Mor, I begged him. I plead with him to revoke his blessing. I asked him to let you choose. I told him about Eris but-“ Rhys glanced over to where her maids were rushing toward her, and spun her deeper into the crowd. “The bastard wouldn’t listen. He agrees with your father about the benefits of the alliance. He just… doesn’t understand."

Rhys paused to wipe a tear from her cheek. “He doesn’t understand,” he repeated. "He understood my mother’s wings, because it was tangible, and he saw it happening. He doesn’t understand this, or anything about how to treat females. Or any other people for that matter. All I can do, Mor, is swear to you that this betrothal is not the end. I will not rest until my father puts a stop to this. I will not rest until he sees your life as more worthwhile than a political alliance."

She nodded at him as she let her tears fall. Suddenly, her father appeared over his shoulder, snarling, and whirled around to face Rhys. “I’ll take it from here,” he said in the most smug tone she’d ever heard him use. Rhys may have argued or tried to stop him, but the room instantly went cold.

Booming footsteps echoed in the doorway. Shadows leaked into the air. And every man and woman in the room knelt to their knees in a bow, for the High Lord had arrived.

He took his time approaching his throne, assessing the bowing members of his court. Rhys’s mother bowed low on the steps of the dais, and the High Lord did not acknowledge her as he ascended. He turned slowly to face his people and sat unceremoniously on the ebony throne, a look of pure boredom upon his face. “Rise, and resume your revelry."

The court rose as one and music began to play as the crowd came back to life. By the time Mor had risen, Rhys was already gone, taking his place on the steps with his mother.

“Keir."

The High Lord’s voice rang cold and sharp through the throne room, and Mor’s father grabbed her by the arm to approach the dais together. “Milord,” her father addressed the High Lord with a bow and pinched Mor’s wrist to indicate that she should also do so. “May I present my daughter, Morrigan?"

“Good evening, Morrigan. Lovely to see you again,” he said with some softness in his voice.  
“The pleasure is mine, my Lord,” she replied. As much as she hated this place, and currently resented Rhysand’s father, Mor needed to keep an air of courtly respect in this room.

“Report, Keir,” the High Lord said, ready to get through the business of his visit.

“Yes, milord. There is little to report in the way of conflict, as the court has been running smoothly. I do, however, wish to present to you a new alliance for the Night Court, forged between my own family and the Autumn Court nobility."

“Go on."

Mor began to shake and glanced over to see Rhys standing beyond the dais, looking like he was preparing for battle. She knew this was how he typically portrayed himself in the Hewn City - powerful, threatening, a force to be reckoned with - but she could always see beneath that mask. This time, it was genuine, and she smiled tightly at him in reassurance that she believed in his promise to her. He would fight like hell to get her out of this situation.

“May I present,” her father gestured beyond her shoulder to the left side of the room, “Beron, High Lord of the Autumn Court, and his son and heir, Eris."

When the males approached, Mor kept her gaze on Rhys. He would be her strength. She could feel Eris's eyes on her, but she did not look at him.

“Welcome to my court, Lord Beron. Eris. I hope you have found your stay enjoyable so far,” Rhysand’s father spoke as the males bowed low.

“Thank you for your hospitality, Lord Wayland. The Night Court is astounding.” Lord Beron’s voice was deep and crass, and Mor felt like it chafed her ears.

“I would like to present my daughter Morrigan’s hand in marriage to the young Lord Eris of the Autumn Court. They have been given the blessing of Seer Hywel, who assessed Morrigan’s above-average power two days ago. They are a good match, and will forge a vital political alliance between Autumn and Night. It will be an alliance more powerful than any in recent Prythian history."

The High Lord of the Night Court sat back in his chair, seemingly assessing the situation. “Do you accept this alliance, Lord Beron?"

“Yes, Lord Wayland. And my son as well."

“Eris?” Eris stepped forward, and Mor finally looked at the members of the Autumn Court.

Beron and Eris looked more like father and son than Rhysand and his father did. Both had auburn hair, worn long to their shoulders, and both were adorned in expensive mahogany leathers. Eris had a sword strapped to his belt, and a snide smirk even sharper. “I accept as well, Lord Wayland."

No one asked Mor.

Keir and Beron shook hands, giving each other terse nods as they stepped back to allow Mor to meet her betrothed.

Eris looked like he wanted to devour her whole, and Mor did not want to step forward. Her father pushed lightly on her back, however, so she was forced to approach him. Eris’s eyes looked her up and down, pausing for too long on her chest, and his face never changed from the sneer plastered to it. He grabbed her hand without her offering it to him, and he kissed her knuckles. It took all of Mor’s energy and will not to cringe.

And then it was over. Beron and Eris faded into the crowd, and Mor found herself standing beside her father once more. “The wedding will take place in a month’s time, milord, at the Autumn Court. We would be honored if your family would attend."

“Very well,” the High Lord waved Keir away with the flick of a hand, and both were dismissed.

Suddenly, Rhys was at her side, and Mor looked up at him with dead eyes. “Rhys, please,” she said, her voice cracking. “Get me out of here for a few days."

Rhys responded by throwing a look of death at her father. “Are you finished locking her up for now, Keir?" he growled.

To Mor’s surprise, Keir didn’t fight. He waved a hand at Rhys in annoyance. “I have my alliance. Take her out of my sight for a few days. Her behavior shames me."

Without looking at her father, Mor grabbed Rhysand’s hand, and he winnowed her out of the Hewn City, leaving all of her hope and dignity behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from the song She Is The Sunlight by Trading Yesterday.


	6. Kids In The Dark

Mor and Rhysand slammed into the ground several feet beyond a cabin, dwarfed in the presence of the mountains surrounding them.

“The reflection cabin,” Mor whispered, managing a smile that did not reach her eyes. “Perfect."

“It was the first place I could think of where there’d be a readily available supply of booze,” Rhysand squeezed her hand as he spoke, and gave her a reassuring smile. “I figured you might need it."

“You figured right. Come on,” she urged, dragging Rhys behind her as she threw open the cabin door. Rhys tugged her back gently, and when Mor looked back questioningly, he had a talon to her stone bracelet. The one restricting her magic. He waited for her consent to break it off, and she nodded. When it snapped, the force of her magic returning barreled her across the threshold and into the cabin.

This cabin was one of Mor’s favorite places in the Night Court. She loved it almost as much as she loved Velaris. In truth, the primary use of this cabin was as a method of solitary confinement whenever Mor or Rhys had acted out as children. When they were younger, Mor’s parents would send her here when she failed to act like a proper lady, and Rhys’s parents would banish him to the cabin when he was caught flying alone or got himself into trouble. Their families thought it a punishment to remain high up in these mountains for hours or days - when in reality, the cousins had long ago perfected the art of sneaking in entertainment and booze for each other. Recently, Rhys had figured out how to charm the old cabin to provide whatever you needed simply upon a thought. Their families never visited here, so they were none the wiser. It had become a sanctuary for Mor and Rhys in times of hardship.

And now was one of those times.

Mor entered the cabin and immediately spotted a large bottle of liquor on the wooden table in the kitchen. She made a beeline for it, took a hefty swig, and handed the bottle to Rhys. Without a word, he took it, and both cousins collapsed into chairs. They took turns drinking from the bottle for a bit, silently passing it back and forth until it was nearly empty and Mor felt her head start to spin.

“Mor,” Rhys broke the silence and looked her dead in the eye. He frowned, opened his mouth to say something, and instead pressed his lips together tightly and shook his head. Mor put her hand up gently.

“Don’t, Rhys. It’s not your fault,” she clasped her hands together and set them on the table so she wouldn’t reach again for the bottle. “I don’t know what else you could have done. What else you can do."

“I can tell him what I heard that pict Eris say in his mind as he looked at you,” he growled, clenching his hand in a fist. “His thoughts would turn the stomach of any respectful male."

“I’m not sure I want to know."

“Let’s just say he wouldn’t hesitate to light your wedding dress aflame to burn it off of you, never mind the effects to your body-"

“Oh, Mother above,” Mor hid her hands in her face and repressed a shudder. “Even without the use of my magic, I could sense his cruelty."

Rhysand’s hand found her shoulder and he simply held it there, his reassuring presence calming her from her oncoming breakdown. “I’m not letting him hurt me, Rhys. I won’t let anyone hurt me ever again."

“I know, Mor. I’ll talk to my father again. But we’ll come up with a plan,” he promised as he chugged the last sip of liquor from the bottle. “But now that we’re sufficiently intoxicated,” he said, even as a fresh bottle appeared before them on the table. He cracked it open. “Let’s take your mind off of this for a bit."

Mor and Rhys changed from their court clothing, Mor finding a comfortable sweater and leggings already waiting for her in the bedroom dresser. They also found a deck of cards and an assortment of coins in a drawer, and they decided to play a few rounds of cards. Another bottle and a half later, Mor was absolutely destroying him at the game, her truth telling magic giving her the edge she needed. Rhys tried to infiltrate her mental shields once or twice, but Mor had long ago learned to block him out when she wanted to. Soon, both were fighting over the rules and spitting out the kind of insults only cousins could exchange without starting a physical fight. Mor even laughed a few times.

After a few hours, both were laying on their backs in the living room area, completely inebriated and unable to get up.

“Cousin,” Mor slurred, rolling over onto her side and looking at Rhys. His wings were out, and he lay flat on his face. He groaned quietly and turned his head to face her.

“Won’t this be the first place Keir will look for me when he wishes to summon me home?” Mor asked him, and Rhys groaned again as he sat up.

“Yes, we’ll stay here for the night,” he hiccuped, and Mor giggled. “Obviously, I’m in no fit state to winnow. Or fly."

“Nor I, cousin, nor I.” Mor tried to sit up but found shoulders hitting the ground almost immediately. “I will sleep right here,” she murmured, turning her body over and into a tight ball, her eyelids flickering shut.

Suddenly she felt her body surge up off the floor, and Rhysand had her in his arms, his body swaying slightly. “No, you take the bed,” he began to walk toward the bedroom but stumbled sideways, and Mor shrieked dramatically. Rhys laughed, but continued walking with increased care.

When he put Mor into the bed, he made his way for the living room again, but Mor called after him. “Rhys, where will we go tomorrow?"

“To the Illyrian camp,” he said, turning around in the doorway and grinning. “It’s about time you met my brothers."

\---

“My house in the camp is the only place you’ll be safe for now,” Rhys said the next morning at breakfast, rubbing his temples. “Your father is no match for Cassian, Azriel, and I. He won’t even attempt to seize you."

Rhys seemed to have a raging headache, but he ate with a ravenous fervor that indicated his hangover would subside rather quickly. Mor too had a hangover, but she could barely look at the plate of bacon in front of her without feeling ill.

“So technically I could stay there forever-"

“Unfortunately,” Rhys said, grabbing for a piece of toast, “my father would likely get involved after a while, so that plan’s out of the question.” He frowned at the untouched plate in front of her. “Mor, eat something."

“I think I’d rather marry Eris than eat anything right now,” she pushed her chair out from the table and stood up. “Let’s get going, I don’t want my father to come looking for me before we leave the cabin."

Rhys sighed and stood also, swallowing a last bite of his breakfast. “Just don’t vomit mid-winnow, or I’m going to pretend you’re not my cousin."

“Deal."

Rhys took Mor’s hand and the cousins winnowed out of the cabin.

They landed softly in a patch of dry mud in front of a small stone house, and Mor immediately took in her surroundings. The camp sat atop a forested mountain, the rocky terrain and assortment of stone buildings making the entire place a grey, harsh environment. Winged men sparred in the distance, a jewel of the deepest black gleaming on most of their right hands. Mor felt a chill in the air and shivered, tucking her arms into her as she followed Rhys to the small stone house.

When Rhys opened the door, Mor heard a bark of male laugher ring out, followed with a clatter of a pan as it hit a hard surface. She raised an eyebrow at Rhys, but he only smirked and led her into the small living area of the house.

“Az, you can’t cook for shit. Let’s just eat toast,” a deep voice - the one that had laughed - said as another clang reverberated through the house.  
“You would set this stone house on fire if you tried to make toast,” a second voice said. The lethal calm in that voice sent a wave of sensation through Mor’s body.

Suddenly, Rhys was talking. “Considering I strongly agree with Azriel,” he began, and at his first word another pan clanged on the ground. “It’s a good thing I brought bacon."

Rhys snapped his fingers and plate of bacon materialized on a coffee table in front of Mor. Two Illyrian males appeared in the threshold between the living area and what Mor assumed to be the kitchen, first looking at Rhys, then the bacon… and then at Mor.

“Cassian, Azriel, this is my cousin, Morrigan. Mor, meet my sorry excuse for brothers."

Mor didn’t think they were a sorry excuse for _anything_.

The first male, Cassian, grinned pointedly at her, his shoulder-length black hair tied up in a strap of leather. Strands fell into his hazel eyes as they took her in - but not in an uncomfortable way. His eyes were friendly, but the rest of him screamed lethal. His muscular body bulged through his fighting leathers, a pair of enormous wings spread wide behind him. He was strong, a true warrior. He was adorned with seven of the jewels she had seen on some of the other Illyrians, all of them red. Mor found herself feeling rather warm in his presence.

But it was the second male that unnerved Mor.

While both males were incredibly handsome, as she supposed most Illyrians were, this one was unique. Azriel's dark hair was sleek and wispy, and seemed to melt into the shadows that licked his entire body. Even his wings, slightly larger than Cassian’s, were immersed in his shadows. He had a strong jawline, but his facial expression was much softer than Cassian’s. His hazel eyes seemed to pierce directly into her soul, as if he wanted to know her deeply, as if he felt her struggles and her pain. And, judging by the scarring on his hand, he might have known more pain than she. His jewels were blue, and he also had seven of them. She wondered why these males had more than the others.

“Well, Mor, it’s about time Rhys introduced us to his favorite cousin,” Cassian said as he walked forward. “The prick only just now deemed us worthy. And I can see why.” He smirked at her. She smirked back, and he laughed darkly.

“Welcome,” Azriel said, his eyes still fixed on her, and she looked into them with purpose. His shadows lightened slightly, and Mor smiled. “Good to meet you both,” Mor said, clapping Rhys on the shoulder. “Cousin, I’m hurt that you would withhold your brothers from me for so long. I have a feeling we’re all going to be very good friends.” Rhys gave her an annoyed look as Cassian laughed again and Azriel half-smiled.

“Indeed,” Cassian crossed the room and snatched a piece of bacon off the plate. “But first, I’m starving. Let’s eat."

Azriel sat quietly and the others followed suit. Cassian began to tell Rhys the story of Azriel attempting to cook breakfast. Mor decided she could eat now, her hangover nearly gone, and took a piece of bacon at the precise moment Azriel reached for the plate.

Her finger brushed his scarred hand gently, and she felt him still over the plate. She caught his gaze and smiled as she sat back. The whole encounter lasted approximately two seconds, and Cassian and Rhys were howling with laughter and none the wiser, but Mor felt something pass between her and Azriel then. An understanding. She looked forward to becoming friends with this male, she thought, as Rhys began to tell his brothers of their drunken card games the night before. Mor enjoyed telling them about her victory, and all of the males laughed with her in a way that made her nearly forget about her family and her future.

This was the life she wanted, and she’d enjoy it while she could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from the All Time Low song of the same name.


	7. Now We're In The Ring

There were only two bedrooms in the cottage, so Rhys gave his to Mor, despite her protests. He conjured himself a bed to sleep on in the living area, while Cassian and Azriel took the second room.

That first night in the Illyrian camp was utterly sleepless. Every time Mor drifted off, she saw cages and shackles, fire and ashes, venomous eyes and bloody hands. The images were broken and scattered in her nightmares, but nevertheless, she’d rather lie awake than subject herself to them. Sometime before dawn, she finally found a few hours of rest, and woke to the sound of thunder rumbling in the distance.

She rolled out of bed, yawning dramatically, and stumbled over to the dresser in the corner of the room. The drawers were filled with clothing in her size, not quite of typical Night Court fashion. This clothing was much plainer and showing much less skin. She shrugged as she pulled out a top and a pair of pants, dressed, and mussed her hair enough to look presentable. She could only guess how she looked, for there was no mirror in the room.

When Mor walked down the narrow staircase a few minutes later, Azriel was sitting on the couch, the only one present, his scarred hands around a large mug of tea and his shadows obscuring his face. He looked up at her as she entered the room, and his shadows flew behind him, as if Mor herself lit the room enough for them to disappear.

“Good morning,” Mor quipped, sitting on the couch beside him. She waved a hand, and her own mug of tea appeared before her on the coffee table. “Where are Rhys and Cassian?"

“Training,” Azriel nodded toward the door as a large crack of thunder reverberated through the house. Mor jumped a bit, her tea nearly sloshing over the side of her mug.

“In the storm?” she asked.

Azriel nodded, sipping his tea. “Storms don’t wait for battles to end,” he said simply.

“I suppose,” she set her mug down and sat back against the pillows. “Why aren’t you training?"

“Rhys didn’t want you to wake up to an empty house. I volunteered to stay behind."

Mor smiled, and she watched Azriel’s shadows dance into lighter wisps of darkness. In this light, his wings looked less black and more… midnight blue. She wondered if that was why his jewels were blue.

Azriel followed her gaze from his wings to the jewels, and held out his hand, flexing it into a fist so the jewel could catch the light. “Siphons,” he explained, “help me channel my power. Hone it, focus it."

Mor lifted her hand and held it just above his, asking the question with her eyebrows. A flash of uncertainty glowed in his hazel eyes, but he didn’t protest as Mor reached down to feel the Siphon on his hand. It was so bright, so smooth, and she could feel the thrum of power beneath it. “If you and Cassian have two each, does that mean you're more powerful that the others?"

“We actually have seven each,” he pointed to each shoulder, each knee, the center of his chest at his heart. “And yes."

Mor moved her hand, but continued to look at him. Azriel averted his gaze back to his tea, a tendril of shadow floating around the hand he’d now pulled away.

Seven siphons each. _Seven_. Rhys had always bragged that his friends were the most powerful warriors in the Illyrian camps but… _seven_. They could probably rival Rhys with their power. Rival her. _Equal her_.

Interesting.

“Rhys’s mother should be here within the hour to keep you company, and then I’ll go to train,” Azriel said, standing to put his empty mug into the sink.

Mor twisted in her seat to face his retreating figure. “What if I want to watch you train? I’d like to see those Siphons at work."

Azriel paused at the sink, giving her a wary look. “Some may not take too kindly to having a High Fae female on the training pitch."

Mor smirked. “I can handle them. And," she added, as Azriel opened his mouth to protest. “I can handle Rhys. He can shove it, I’m coming. I need to to feel the wind on my face, the sun in my hair, for once.” She knew she may never get the chance again.

Azriel’s face softened, as if he understood something in that moment, and he nodded. Mor’s face broke into a smile and she leapt up from the couch. Before she knew what she was doing, she was embracing Azriel in a tight hug. He tensed, his wings flaring out slightly as Mor wrapped her arms around him and squeezed. He didn’t hug her back, but he didn’t shrink away either. Mor noticed that his shadows were practically nonexistent when she looked up at him and beamed. “I’ll go get a jacket. Be back down in five."

She let go of him and strolled for the staircase, but stopped when Azriel cleared his throat. “Mor,” he called after her softly, but urgently, and she turned to face him from across the room.

“I know what it’s like to have a shitty family,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. “To be shut in. Discarded.” His lip twitched, and he looked at the floor. “You know. If you ever need to talk.”

Mor beheld the Illyrian male before her. On the outside, he was terrifying. Intimidating. His enormous wings, his shadows, his stern and calculating face screamed danger, destruction. And she had no doubt that he could live up to that impression. But Mor found that she could see beneath it all. She didn’t know if he intended to lay it all out before her in that moment, but she could see it. The way his shadows lifted, the sincerity in his eyes, the honesty of his words that she could sense even without her truth powers. He could, he would, be a great friend to have. She smiled lightly at him, briefly wondering if the scars on his hands had anything to do with his family. “Thank you,” was all that she could think to say as she rushed up the stairs for a jacket, her pulse quickening, some light deep within her coming to life.

A few minutes later, Mor’s boots sloshed through the mud as she followed Azriel out into the camp. The rain had let up, mercifully, though the icy drizzle it had turned to was freezing Mor to her core. At least she felt something.

The pair walked past stone houses and, Mor now noticed, a great many un-pitched tents, soaking through from the storm. The camp was alive with the sparring of Illyrian males, despite the weather. These warriors - all of them - screamed power, their tattooed muscles gleaming with sweat and rain and their wings splattered with mud. A brutal kind, surely, but if Rhys and Azriel and Cassian were any indication, much more honorable than the slimy High Fae of the Hewn City.

Mor spotted Rhys and Cassian in a sparring pit slightly in the distance, both armed with long steel blades, clashing and fighting each other in an elaborate dance. Other Illyrians trained nearby, with a large, official-looking male overseeing the pits. She’d never seen Rhys in his fighting leathers before, always the High Lord’s son in the Hewn City, always well-dressed when they went out in Velaris. But he moved in them as if they were his skin. And Cassian - he was wearing the leathers too, but he was shirtless, and he was… very strong. Stronger than Rhys, if Mor was allowed to admit it.

“Bastard boy,” someone called above the clang of steel, and Mor whirled around - realizing she’d been staring at Cassian, and shaking herself from her reverie - and beheld the overseer traipsing through the mud in their direction. She raised her eyebrows just as he slid his cold eyes over her body. Once. Twice. “Or did your plaything not know about your birth status?” He humphed as he turned back to Azriel, and Mor noticed that his face had hardened significantly. “You know the rules, bastard, if you want to fuck the help - though I’m not sure what this one wants to do with the likes of you - they stay in your tent-"

“Need I remind you, Lord Devlon,” Rhys snarled from behind the overseer, or camp leader, as it seemed, “Azriel doesn’t live in a tent."

Devlon sniffed her, his nostrils flaring. Azriel tensed. “So this one’s yours then, little Lord?"

“She’s her own. And she’ll detonate your bones to smithereens if you speak of her in such a way again,” Rhys answered evenly.

And even while she wished the first part were true, she felt her power flare inside her as she met the camp leader’s eyes. Light sparks flickered on her fingers, and she gave him a devious smile. Devlon merely looked at her before turning back to the sparring pits. “Get back in the ring!” he called over his shoulder.

Rhys shot a glare at Azriel, but Mor stepped between them, placing her hands on her cousin’s shoulders. “I just want to watch. I needed to get out of the house.”

He gave her a wary look, but conceded, marching back to where Cassian was narrowing his eyes at them, cleaning his blade with his discarded shirt. “Come to learn some Illyrian moves?” he called out to Mor, a grin widening over his handsome face.

Mor smirked as she approached, trying to hold his gaze. “Just came to watch some of the most powerful warriors in Prythian show me what they can do.” She dared a glance to that muscular chest, knowing he noticed, and looked back at his face with an amused glint in her eye. “Don’t disappoint."

Cassian only returned her smirk as he joined Azriel in the sparring pit, both of their Siphons glowing, as Rhys stood to the side and drank water from a canteen.

And they did not disappoint.

Cassian and Azriel sparred - no, _brawled_ \- the magic coming from the Siphons themselves forming the shape of daggers and swords and shields. Red clashed blue, and Mor watched as Azriel’s shadows clouded Cassian’s vision, as Cassian’s brute strength threw Azriel off-guard.

It was brutal, and it was violent. But the males fought with dignity, with discipline, with grace, and it was a different sort of battle than the kind they waged in the Hewn City, with politics and trickery. There was respect here, and a true fight and a true effort to achieve victory. No, here they worked hard, here they earned every win, and they did not step on innocents and barter other people to rise in the ranks.

She knew about Illyrians, about Rhys’s mother, about how they treated women, and she’d never accept that aspect of the culture. But this aspect of it - she respected it. She respected the warriors who had to fight to achieve their dreams, rather than just allow them to drop into their waiting hands.

She looked at her cousin, at his brothers, and she knew they were different from the males she’d grown up knowing in the Hewn City. And she also knew that they held no value there, in her hell hole of a home, simply because of their status - bastards and half-breeds and lesser faeries and whatever else their pasts defined them as - but Mor would choose this brutal strength over the status-hungry brutality of males at court any day. Any day.

If only she had such a luxury.

And so she spent the next several days at the Illyrian camp with the males - choosing. Choosing to wake up at dawn and go to the training pitch with Rhys and Cassian and Azriel, choosing to ask Cassian to teach her a few Illyrian techniques, choosing to ignore her fate and live in the fantasy of using her power for herself and herself alone.

And Mor decided that she quite liked being able to choose. To dream, and to work toward that dream, she realized a week after her arrival at the camp when she knocked Cassian into the dirt. 

And she chose to keep choosing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm Moriel trash and I'm not sorry.
> 
> Title is from Glory and Gore by Lorde.


	8. And We're Coming For Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait for the update. just... empire of storms. you know the deal.  
> 

“Sore from our playing?"

Mor flopped onto her back from where she sat on the floor, massaging her calf muscles. She looked upside down at Cassian towering over her from the bottom of the stairs in the cottage, a feline grin on his face.

“Maybe,” she said, fingers still pushing into the muscle. “How’s your favorite part faring this morning?"

His grin turned to a scowl. After two weeks of physical training with Cassian, during which she’d learned self-defense and Illyrian fighting techniques, she’d started adding her powers to their sparring. To his chagrin, Mor could match him quite well in the magic department, and an errant strike of light had missed his wing by mere inches yesterday. Which caused him to crash dive to the ground, defending his wings at any cost, and he’d landed _quite_ hard on a rock in a very sensitive place. Azriel and Rhys had laughed themselves hoarse as Cassian tried not to cry out in pain in front of the entirety of the Illyrian camp, and Mor had merely approached him, tilted her head, and murmured, “Unfortunate,” as she offered him a hand.

“It could be better,” Cassian replied after a moment, his grin returning. Mor rolled her eyes and stood up.

“Try to protect it a little more diligently today. You never know what I’ll throw at you next time.”

“I can only dream,” Cassian purred. Mor squinted and threw sparks at him right as Azriel came downstairs, stretching out his wings. His shadows jumped back at the sight of the sparks, and Mor laughed.

“Stop being a pict, Cassian,” Azriel said, taking a mug from the cabinet. "Save it for the pitch."

And he did. The three of them went out to the training yards as the sun was rising, the dry mud caking their boots and the frost turning their breaths to mist. Cassian and Azriel took the pitch first, warming up, and Cassian seemed on a mission to knock his brother into the dust. Mor had to admit this was one of her favorite parts of training - seeing the males spar in the ring, wings tightly tucked, the muscular arms peeking out as they rolled up their sleeves.

When Cassian had knocked Az to the ground, both males panting, it was Mor’s turn to train. Azriel drifted to the sidelines to work on his own exercises, his shadows mirroring the movements of his knives, as Cassian braced himself for Mor’s magic. She smirked as she felt for the well of raw power in her core, Cassian’s scarlet siphons brightening in anticipation. Light met brute force, tendrils of darkness met the unbearable heat of fire. They fought in a dance of ability and sarcastic remarks, a competition of sorts on two ends, and it kept both Mor’s body and mind occupied from the distracting anxiety that crippled her most nights. She lived for these sparring matches, she felt well-matched and strong, able to hold her own, but challenged. After a while, Mor had Cassian cornered, teasingly threatening his previous injury, and he decided it was time to bench her.

Just as she was about to quip a wicked reply, Rhys and his mother winnowed in. Lady Iorea had popped in the cottage a few times since Mor had been seeking refuge at the Illyrian camp, claiming that she had to make sure the males weren’t leaving the house in ruins. Mor knew she was just concerned. And felt bad that her husband wasn’t doing much for his niece.

“I hope you’re not causing Mor too many headaches, Cassian,” the Lady of the Night Court said by way of greeting as she fluffed her wings back into place, disheveled from the long distance winnowing. She walked onto the pitch and ruffled his hair with her hand, a mother’s gesture to a son. Mor smiled. Cassian frowned.

“Oh he is, but I’m repaying him in full,” Mor laughed as Cassian shrugged out of Iorea’s reach. She looked at Rhys then, who hadn’t spoken yet, and saw that he was still in court clothing, expression grim. She knew he had been up early to go to the House of Wind, his father having summoned him, and she felt her heart rate speed up. “Rhys?"

He sighed. “Your father is getting restless. Since there’s two weeks until the-“ he cut himself off, moving his gaze from Mor and brushing nonexistent dust from his shirt. “The High Lord is paying a visit to the Hewn City. We’re going there for the night,” he indicated Lady Iorea and himself, and looked to Azriel. “You too, Az. This is an opportunity to see what Keir is planning."

“Planning?" Mor asked slowly. Azriel had put down his weapons and was listening intently, shadows in full display.

“He likely plans to extract you at some point, if we don’t return you,” He cleared his throat and Azriel growled, Cassian tightening next to Mor. She swallowed hard and put her hand on Az’s shoulder to steady herself.

“We won’t. And Keir won’t take kindly to that,” Rhys said darkly, looking from Mor to Azriel. “We leave at nightfall.” The Illyrian nodded, conviction settled in the lines of his face. Mor dropped her hand to her side.

“So," Rhys drawled, "I hope Cassian isn’t getting under your skin too much." Rhys smirked as his eyes moved to his other brother. “Because he’ll stay here with you." Now Cassian nodded, a silent acceptance of a silent order. To keep her safe. Rhys looked back to Mor, and she managed a half smile of gratitude. She didn’t exactly want to be left by herself to wallow in her fear and anxiety. She also didn’t feel particularly safe in a war camp full of Illyrians with questionable motives and allies.

“See you tonight,” Iorea said gently, and she opened up her wings and took flight. Rhys put his hand on his cousin’s arm, comforting, reassuring, as he directed a challenging stare at his brothers.

“Who wants to work off their anger first?” His clothes shifted to Illyrian fighting leathers.

Cassian was already walking toward the pit, hands balled at his sides. Rhys followed.

Mor looked up at the sky, at the clouds rolling in, and huffed a sigh as she sat down hard on the ground. Steel clanged with vigor as Cassian and Rhys sparred.

If they came for her...

She was strong and powerful, and she was trained now, at least somewhat. She’d put up a fight. But her father had many allies, many powerful allies… she didn’t know if she would be able to hold off seasoned warriors or magic-wielders. Didn’t know if it would be worth it, to kill for her freedom. She didn’t want anyone to have to die because she didn’t want to marry.

There had to be a way to get out of this where no one would have to fight. There had to be a way to break the betrothal, to convince her father or Eris that the marriage shouldn’t happen. To ruin the worth that her magic gave to her.

A heavy weight settled beside her, an arm brushing hers. She looked over at Azriel, his face still set in stone, and his shadows enveloped them both. Calming her. They sat there for a moment, listening to the dull sounds of Illyrian fighting blades striking each other in the distance.

“My father,” he started after that moment, his voice gruff but steady, “had two legitimate sons. And a bastard."

Mor put her hand on his knee. She didn’t have to ask which son he was.

“My step-mother was haughty. Prideful. Hated what I stood for, what my father had done to give me life. Hated me,” his focus was entirely on Mor’s hand, and his shadows darkened around them, shielding them from view. “She kept me locked away in a cell. For eleven years I saw the sun for but an hour a day. While my brothers taunted me with the joys of flying, my wings ached for the open wind, but I was never allowed…” He trailed off, pain lining his face. “They kept me from living. From my natural need and desire to fly.”

Just as her father was keeping her from living… from enjoying the daylight, from dancing in Velaris, from making friends and falling in love and choosing. Mor removed her hand from Azriel’s knee and took his hand in hers. His shadows lightened slightly. “The scars?” she whispered.

“My brothers burned me for sport. I was eight."

Mor cringed.

“My family only let me out when they discovered my shadow-singing abilities. They feared me - but kept a leash on me. And Rhys helped get me out. So believe me when I tell you, Mor,” he finally looked at her face, his hazel eyes hard with determination. “That I know how it feels to be locked away, to be told you’re worthless until they want to use you. And I will do everything in my power to make sure that this ends, and that you have your freedom. I swear it."

For a male to make such a promise, to swear an oath to someone… that was unbreakable. She leaned in to kiss his cheek, and his shadows suddenly disappeared. Mor pulled back, looked him in the eyes, and shook her head. “They’ll never be convinced that I’m worthy of my freedom, Az."

“You’re worth more,” he said with deadly calm, “than your ability to breed power into heirs."

Her heart swelled. She dropped his hand and rubbed the back of her neck. “Not to them. That’s always what I’ve been worth to them. Even before my power settled."

Mor suddenly realized that the clanging of steel had stopped, and she looked to the sparring pit. She and Azriel were in full view now that his shadows had dissipated, and she caught Cassian’s narrowed eyes looking at them.

She met his gaze, saw the longing he tried to shield in his eyes.

For so long, she would have shied away from such a gaze. Not for fear of it, not for lack of want… but because there was always that voice in the back of her head. Her father’s voice, telling her that her worth was in her purity. Her marriageability. And she was so locked away and hopeless that she would turn from a gaze like that, she would decide that the risk of her father’s wrath wasn’t worth it. Now she needed that wrath. Needed him to discard her before he could use her.

So when Cassian looked at her like that…

She knew exactly how to ruin her worth.

As he approached them, Azriel’s shadows flitted back into existence. Mor smirked at Cassian, who held out a hand to help her up.

“Ready to spar?"

Indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Glory and Gore by Lorde.


	9. No Guilt In Pleasure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *THIS CHAPTER IS NSFW*  
> This chapter is rated E for explicit sexual content.  
> If you wish to skip this chapter, all you need to know is Mor and Cassian are left alone at the Illyrian camp, and she chooses to lose her virginity to him.

The more she thought about her plan, the more she was sure. This was how Mor wanted it to be.

She would be in control of her own life, for once. She would decide who she wanted to give herself to, and she would follow through.

And the most powerful Illyrian warrior in this camp, eighteen years old and already with the power to match a High Lord’s son, wanted her. She knew it was the truth. She could sense it with her magic.

And she wanted him too. Mor wanted to give herself to him, wanted to decide for herself what she was worth. And she decided she was perfectly fine with being worthy of a legendary Illyrian warrior.

Rhys and Azriel left camp an hour before nightfall, determination set in their tan faces. Mor didn’t let herself hope that anything would change after their visit to the Hewn City. There was nothing Rhys could do as merely a High Lord’s son, and Mor had accepted that. She was ready to take matters into her own hands.

Mor sat down on the couch to rest her aching legs after the long day of training. She’d managed to get in some strategic shots as she flirted with Cassian, but she was too distracted with her plans and her nerves to notice the few times he knocked her out from under her feet. She was aching, but her healing magic was doing wonders for her chafed, dry skin and her bruises.

Cassian sat at a chair at the kitchen table, reading some incredibly large and boring-looking war manual that Mor didn’t think would be too hard to distract him from. She sat up and let out a deep sigh, and Cassian looked up at her from under a strand of his long black hair. “Need something?"

“Got any booze here?” Mor quipped, standing up from the couch and walking over to open one of the pantries. Beans. Rice. Flour.

“Not in there. Why?”

“Can’t a girl have a little fun in this dreadful place?” she asked.

Cassian chuckled as he closed the book with a great thud. She kept her head in the pantry, and she heard his chair scoot out from underneath him on the wooden floors. Suddenly, he was standing over her, his hands braced just above hers on the pantry doors. He closed them, slowly. His body was close to hers as he whispered in her ear, “What did you have in mind?"

She whirled around to face him, their bodies inches from each other, and placed one delicate hand on his muscular chest. He stiffened, his wings spreading slightly, but continued to grin down at her. “Show me where the liquor is and I’ll tell you,” she purred.

Cassian held her gaze for a few more moments before stepping back and opening a cabinet under the counter. He reached in and pulled out two bottles of wine with one large hand. Mor watched as he gathered two glasses, put everything on the table, and began to pour.

“Rhys warned me about you, you know,” he chided, and Mor raised her eyebrows at him. “Someone gets _very_ competitive when she’s drunk, allegedly."

He handed her a glass, filled almost to the brim with the liquor, and she took a massive swig. She instantly felt looser. “Are we playing a game, Cassian?"

“You tell me."

A challenge.

“A question for a question,” she mused, leaning against the counter as he sat back at the table.

“What are you, the Bone Carver?"

“Fine,” she took another large sip. “I’ll start."

He waited, sipping from his own drink, and crossed a leg over one knee cockily.

She swirled the wine in her cup, contemplating her move. “What’s your rank around here?"

Something flickered in Cassian’s eyes. “I’m one of the most powerful ones here. And it frightens the War Lords, so they keep me close. But not too close. I’m still training, but I assist in the training of most of the other warriors in this camp.” He paused to finish his first glass of wine, and began to pour himself another. “But if Rhys has his way, I’ll command the entire army. One day."

Mor smirked. “You think mighty highly of yourself, don’t you?"

“I believe it was my turn to ask a question, Mor,” Cassian purred, leaning forward in his seat as he looked her in the eye. “What’s so special about your magic that has a slew of High Lords' sons battling for your hand?"

She sighed and tried not to let the question hit her too deeply. Tried not to think about those High Lords’ sons. Instead she pursed her lips and let out a low laugh. “My power is truth,” she stated, finishing her drink and handing the glass to Cassian to refill before she elaborated. “I can see truth. Tell if people are lying. So don’t lie in any of these answers,” she warned with a seductive smile.

“Come sit,” Cassian said in response, pulling another chair directly in front of him. She obliged. Their knees were brushing now. “Your turn."

“How many women have you been with?” she said without thinking. Cauldron, was the wine already getting to her? But the light in Cassian’s eyes at her question made her throw all her anxiety out the window.

He laughed softly, draining his second glass and setting it on the table. “Enough,” was his only response.

“Enough for what?"

“Enough to know what I’m doing. And be damn good at it."

“Cocky prick,” she teased, slapping one of his knees.

“Was I lying?” he mused, piercing her eyes with his gaze. Mor considered her magic for a moment.

She shook her head. He grinned.

“Have you ever been with a male?"

“If I had,” she murmured, leaning forward. “I don’t think I’d be in this predicament right now."

Cassian leaned toward her. Their faces were only inches apart. “You never know. You seem full of secrets."

“Perhaps I am. Do you want to figure them out?” she dared.

“Is that your next question?” he said, his voice rough.

“No more questions,” she said, and closed the space between them.

The kiss was passionate from the first moment their lips brushed, Cassian’s hands immediately on her waist. Mor’s hand tangled in his long, dark hair, and he licked her bottom lip, requesting access. She opened her mouth for him at the same time he gripped her harder around the waist and tugged her into his lap, straddling him.

His hands roamed her sides and her back as they kissed, his mouth hot as fire against hers and his tongue flicking the roof of her mouth. One of her hands pressed against that broad chest, pushing the shirt he wore slightly to the side to reveal his muscles.

Cassian moved his mouth down to her chin, and then her neck, nipping at the sensitive spot between her ear and her jaw, and she let out a little gasp. His lips found hers again, his hands slipping just underneath her shirt to touch her bare skin, and she groaned into his mouth. Mor felt him harden underneath her, and she began to grind against him.

Something in that movement leashed him, and he pulled away, both of them panting. “Mor,” he said against her mouth. “We should stop."

Mor pulled away just enough to look into his eyes… and ground against him again. His eyes turned from hungry to feral. “No, we shouldn’t,” she said breathlessly.

And suddenly he looked like he was genuinely frightened about what they were doing, and he looked away. “Mor-"

“Cassian,” she urged, and he returned his gaze to hers. The hunger was still there. “I don’t _want_ to stop. And I don’t think you do either."

He snarled in frustration, and moved one of his hands to her thigh. Dangerously close to the damning evidence of her arousal. “I don’t,” he confirmed, “But this could put you in danger-"

“But nothing, Cassian,” she ran a hand through his hair and grabbed his chin gently. “I’ll be worth nothing to them, and I don’t care what they think or want. _I_ want this. I want to be able to know what this feels like, to _want_ someone, before…” she trailed off, but continued to look into his hazel eyes. “Will you do this for me? I need to know what it feels like to choose. Just once."

He looked at her for a moment, likely at the desperation in her eyes, but also at the desire on her face, and he nodded. “If you’re sure."

“I’m sure,” she said, and he was kissing her again.

His hands didn’t pause at the skin on her back this time. They roamed up, up, until he lifted her shirt over her head, taking the lace beneath with it. He moved his mouth down her neck, her collarbone, slowly making his way lower as he cupped one breast with his hand. Mor moaned when his mouth found the other, his tongue swirling in a way that drove her crazy. Cassian moved to her other breast and nipped at it, and she dropped her head back and let go of every worry and every care.

His hands moved to her backside as his lips found hers again, teeth clashing and tongues lashing sloppily, and he said against her mouth, “I’m going to make this so good for you."

She whimpered. The promise in his voice was no lie. Mor pushed his shirt to the side again and said between panting breaths, “Off, off, off.” His wings were tucked too tightly for her to remove his shirt herself, so he made a quick deal of it.

Before she knew what was happening, Cassian was lifting her into his arms, his lips still against hers, and carrying her up the stairs. They passed the room Mor had been sleeping in and entered the one Cassian and Azriel shared. There were two enormous beds, and he set Mor down on the first one as he unfurled his majestic wings.

As he leaned over her and began pressing kisses to her breasts, her stomach, and lower still, she reached up and caressed one of his wings. He stilled and looked up from where his head was positioned just over her abdomen. “Those are sensitive,” he snarled, and she winked at him. It undid him. He reached his hands up to grasp her waist and pulled her pants down roughly, leaving the lace underwear in place. He nipped at one thigh, then the other, and Mor was going to explode if he didn’t get to it right then.

“Cassian, please,” she gasped, gripping the sheets. He laughed against her thigh, the scruff on his face scratching it gently and sending chills up her spine.

“Just tell me to stop at any time,” he said, both a tease and an assurance, but she was having none of that right now. He took her underwear in his teeth and pulled them down, down to her knees. And paused.

“ _Please_ -"

Mor didn’t need to say any more as he licked a slow, torturous stroke up her center. She moaned so loudly that any tent full of Illyrian warriors nearby could probably hear her, but she gave up trying to muffle herself as Cassian swirled his tongue on her, and then stuck one finger inside her. “Cassian-"

He laughed against her and added another finger. He began to pump faster, and her hands dug into his hair. She was going to explode into a giant ball of light, she didn’t even know it was possible to feel anything like this, and Cauldron, he was sucking on her now-

A wave of pleasure washed through her, and then a storm. Cassian continued to work her through the high, and she briefly wondered if this was her magic’s doing, but realizing that this was how she was supposed to feel, this was ecstasy, this was what the fulfillment desire and want felt like.

Before she was even fully down from her high, she was tugging Cassian up to her and kissing him roughly, tasting herself on him. She felt _amazing_. Better than she ever had in her entire life. And she wasn’t ready for it to be done. Her hand grabbed for the front of his pants, and she snarled into his mouth, “ _Off._ "

“Liked that, did you?” he muttered as she yanked his pants off of him, both of them fully naked now. She took in the sheer length of him and paled, and he chuckled. “Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle,” he promised, and it was sincere, and Mor wasn’t afraid.

Cassian positioned himself over her and kissed her gently. He pulled away, looking into her eyes. “Ready?"

She nodded. And he pushed in. And in.

Mor felt a sharp twinge of pain and cried out a little, and he paused, pushing a lock of her hair back off of her face. “Are you okay?” he asked, concern in his eyes.

The pain subsided to a dull ache, and she nodded again. “Keep going."

He thrust in slowly and filled her up, and let her adjust to him inside her. The pressure was intoxicating, and she needed friction, she needed release. Cassian, as if in answer to her silent plea, began to move, and she rolled her hips in time with his as the pace increased. Their lips crashed together, and Cassian moved down to kiss her neck, her shoulder, and the point of her ear, worshipping her body as she held on to him.

“Mor,” he panted. “Is this how you want it?"

“Yes, Cassian, yes,” she cried, along with other unintelligible words. She couldn’t think straight.

“You got to choose,” he breathed into her ear as his hand began to stroke the bundle of nerves between her legs. “You chose this."

“I chose you,” she cried as she came undone. He followed right along with her.

When they came down, limp and panting, Cassian rolled to his side and tucked Mor against him. “So,” he said into her hair. “How was I?"

She smacked his arm but also leaned up and kissed his neck. “Thank you,” she breathed. “I know this won’t be… the easiest to deal with, when it comes out,” Mor stroked his hair. “But I want you to know that it means a lot to me. So thank you."

Cassian’s eyebrows knitted together, but he schooled his expression quickly and brushed her blonde hair out of her face. “It was my pleasure."

“Prick. Go to sleep,” she nudged his chest with her head and settled there. “Tomorrow’s going to be a long day."

Cassian sighed. “Indeed."

He fell asleep quickly, if his even breathing was any indication, but Mor lay awake for another hour.

What she had just done...

No. She would not allow herself to regret it. She had wanted something, chose it, and actually done it. All on her own, without caring about what anyone else would think. This was for her.

She just hoped it wouldn’t end up costing her more than it was worth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from the MSMR song of the same name.


	10. The Incident

A hand gripped her arm, roughly, and her flesh began to burn.

Not burning with desire, or comforting warmth, but burning with relentless, searing heat. Fire to flesh, flame to bare skin.

The skin welted, bubbled, and began to peel away, baring her insides to the world amidst a swirl of reeking smoke. It spread from her arm up to her neck and down to her chest, her abdomen, her legs.

She screamed and screamed and screamed, the heat consuming her, the flames incinerating her skin, expecting pain to come, any moment it would come -

But it didn’t.

Her flesh melted from her as the hands roamed up and down her body, burning everywhere they touched, but the fire did not give her pain.

And that scared her the most. So she screamed.

“Mor."

She grabbed for the hands to shove them away, anything to make the flames recede. The hands were suddenly encompassed with shadows, dark and billowing, and the hands pulled away from her in alarm. The skin began to reform as charred ruin, black and leathery.

“Mor."

It still didn’t hurt. And yet she screamed.

_“Mor.”_

Mor awoke with a start, the sheets tangled around her, and lifted her hands to her face. Whole. Unhurt. She huffed a deep sigh and flopped back into the pillows, reaching for the glass of water she typically left on her nightstand.

Not her bed. She was not in her bed. Right.

“Does this happen often?” Cassian asked wearily, one hand lifted as if to comfort her, but unsure if he should touch her. She was grateful for his hesitation and she rolled over and away from him, gathering the sheets around her. She shivered.

“Often enough,” she answered dismissively. Mor couldn’t pull herself completely from the dream, partly because of the horror of it, but mostly because… she couldn’t help but feel like this dream was different, like this dream was a sign.

“Are you okay?"

It was a loaded question. Was she okay from the dream? Was she okay from last night? Was she ever going to be okay again? “It was just a dream, Cass,” she replied, unable to bring herself to lie and say that, yes, she was fine, when she didn’t know if that was the truth.

Cassian sighed and stood from the bed, picking his pants up off the floor. “I need to go into the camp today,” he said quietly, regret lining the tone of his voice, and Mor rolled over to face him. His usual snark and sarcasm was missing this morning, his flirty demeanor gone completely. “I’ll be nearby if you need me. But it’s early, you should rest. Eat something. We can train this afternoon."

Mor nodded and swung her legs over the side of the bed, reaching down for her shirt. The two of them were silent as they dressed, and Cassian murmured a goodbye to her as he stomped down the stairs, leaving through the back door of the house. Mor listened to him go, and when she heard the door lock, she walked downstairs and flopped down on the couch.

She thought she would feel better this morning, that she would feel like a weight had lifted off of her shoulders. She didn’t feel terrible, but she certainly wasn’t carefree and relieved like she expected to be.

She was still a girl trapped in a life she didn’t want, still a girl betrothed to a male with a reputation for cruelty. And yesterday, for the first time in her life, she was a girl who had a choice, and she had acted on that choice. She took control of her own life, damn the consequences. And, today, she wouldn’t let herself regret that choice, even if Cassian did. It was hers to make, and hers to face, and she’d rather make a poor choice than no choices at all.

Outside, she heard feet landing in the dirt, and her heart began to pound. The front door opened, and Azriel strolled into the house with his shadows swirling about him. He lifted his head and saw Mor laying there, and his shadows momentarily dissipated. She smiled, albeit half-heartedly, at her friend, and he looked as if he might smile back.

But then the shadows all came rushing back as his eyes locked on hers. Behind the shadows, Mor could see the look of complete shock and the almost-smile turning to a grimace. His reaction made sense about a half-second later as his nostrils flared dramatically.

He could smell Cassian on her, he could smell the sex. The realization was all over his face. His mouth tightened into a hard line, his hands formed fists absentmindedly at his side, and his eyes...

His eyes...

Those hazel eyes that had pierced her so knowingly when they first met two weeks ago, the eyes that filled with something deep and mysterious each time they met hers, those eyes that had held so much promise as he told her she was worth more than her family could ever know. Those eyes were gone, replaced with anger, vengeance, and hurt.

Hurt. Her heart tightened in her chest.

“Az,” Mor’s voice cracked as she stood from the couch, but he remained in the doorway, his stony expression cutting her into a million pieces. She opened her mouth to explain, _anything_ to get that look off his face, to get him to stop looking at her like that. But she didn’t get a chance to say any more as Rhysand and his mother walked in.

Rhys saw Azriel standing still in the doorway, and his eyebrows creased. “Az?” he asked. “Why are you staring-"

Mor watched again as her cousin’s nostrils flared and he snapped his head to her, horror and wild rage burning like a fire in his eyes. She didn’t move as he walked over to her, leaving Azriel still standing in the doorway and his mother pale-faced beside him. Rhys was furious, raging, probably seeing white, but not for her. No, it was for his brother that his rage boiled inside him, threatening to explode at any moment.

“Rhys-"

“Where is he."

“Rhys, please-"

“WHERE. IS. CASSIAN.” He choked on his brother’s name and Azriel visibly shuddered in the doorway, the most emotion she had ever seen the shadow-singer portray. Tears threatened to spill from Mor’s eyes but she kept her head held high as she looked into her cousin’s violet eyes.

“He’s out at the camp. But Rhys, listen to me, it was my choice, I- Rhys!” Mor called after her cousin as he retreated in the middle of her speaking, shoving past Azriel and his mother and exiting out the front door. Mor sobbed, finally allowing the tears to fall, and ran after him, carefully avoiding Azriel’s gaze as she made her way to the door.

When she was outside, Rhys was scenting the air, no doubt to locate Cassian. “Rhys, stop,” Mor called frantically. “I’ve never had a choice in my life, Rhys, and I wanted to choose this. Please don’t punish him for giving me that.” She vaguely heard a door slam behind her. "I had to know what it was like to be my own person, if I’m going to belong to someone for the rest of my life. Rhys, please, please come back inside and let’s talk about this.” She furiously wiped at her eyes as Rhys stood in place, staring pointedly at the ground.

When he recognized that she had finished, he merely gave her one fleeting glance as he winnowed on the spot.

“Rhys!” Mor cried, sprinting to the patch of grass he had just been standing on, when she felt a hand tentatively close around her arm. She whirled around to find those hazel eyes again, softer as they looked at her, though his facial expression was no less murderous than before.

“Az, let me go,” Mor snapped, pulling her hand from his grip, and he loosened his grip somewhat.

“You don’t want to see this, Mor. Go inside,” his voice was cold, distant. Mor thought her heart would explode into pieces.

“I can’t let him-“ Mor started, and suddenly remembered that she was the gods-damned most powerful female in the Night Court, and winnowed herself and Azriel to the training camp.

She immediately spotted Rhys trudging to the ring where Cassian stood, and pulled her arm loose of Azriel’s to chase after him. “Rhys, stop!"

Hearing Mor’s voice, Cassian and the few other Illyrians in the area turned to look at the source of the outcry, and all of their eyes fell on the High Lord’s son with murder in his eyes headed straight for them.

The other Illyrians almost immediately took flight into the skies, sensing his rage, but Cassian stayed rooted to the spot. He took in Mor running after Rhys in her nightclothes, the hatred on Azriel’s face, and finally, a very angry Rhys approaching him, wings spread wide and talons sprouting from his hands.

Cassian didn’t flee. He didn’t even move. He knew exactly what Rhys was angry about, and he knew there would be hell to pay whether he liked it or not. Mor wondered if he knew, if he even thought about the consequences, before what they’d done last night. If he’d accepted this punishment before he’d even entered her.

She stopped chasing her cousin and stood statue-like on the outer edges of the training ring as Rhys neared his brother and placed a taloned hand at his throat. “You bedded her,” he managed with deadly calm, and Cassian did not break eye-contact.

“Yes."

“YOU BEDDED MY COUSIN,” Rhys roared, his glamour dropping completely and his darkness exploding around them. Without removing his talon from Cassian’s throat, Rhys punched him square in the nose with his other hand. Mor stumbled back even as Cassian did, and she found herself falling back against Azriel directly behind her. She remained pressed against him as she watched Cassian lift a hand to his bloody nose, no shock in his reaction, but rage contorting on his face.

“Rhys, she asked me to,” he snarled, wiping the blood with the back of his hand as Rhys stood poised to land another punch any moment. “She wanted to choose, and I couldn’t refuse her that."

“Cassian, do you realize how much danger you’ve put her in? How much danger you’ve put us all in?” Rhys roared, advancing quickly into the space between them and shoving him, hard. “Her father could _kill_ her for this if he finds out!” Mor shuddered as Rhys screamed in his brother’s face, as Cassian balled his fists at his side, red siphons glowing, and as the truth of Rhysand’s words sunk in.

Rhys lunged at Cassian then, his talons ripping at his leathers, and the two Illyrians fell to the ground. Cassian began to hit back, and the fight became a full-on brawl, limbs flying and blood spraying. Two trained and powerful warriors, two friends, deep in a rage that had them attacking one another without hesitation and without mercy.

Mor couldn’t watch them fight. Not when she could physically see a rift forming between these males who considered themselves brothers. Not when she had caused that rift.

She turned around and buried her face into Azriel’s muscular chest, his body grounding her as she sobbed into him. He stared straight ahead, at the broken forms of his brothers brawling in the dirt, and wrapped one arm around her middle. She didn’t deserve that bit of comfort, especially not from him, but she appreciated it nonetheless.

She’d made a choice, and the only regret she had now was one she could have never foreseen: Rhys, Cassian, and Azriel divided, their bond damaged. They were the only people each of them could trust, and she had broken that. And even if they could work through it, she didn’t think she would ever forgive herself for that. Not now when all she could hear were the feral growls and the cracking of bone coming from Cassian and Rhys, and the rapid and uneven beating of Azriel’s heart against her cheek that told her that this destroyed him more than he allowed himself to show.

Mor didn’t know how long the fight lasted, only that Azriel eventually pulled away from her, leaving her feeling empty and vulnerable, and that when she turned around and looked up, she saw Rhysand’s bloodied and bruised face staring coldly back at her.

“You return in three days. There’s nothing my father is willing to do to risk his control in the Hewn City,” he said, panting from his fight, and Mor caught a shadow of panic in his violet eyes. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” he finished, breathing out a deep sigh.

Rhys wouldn’t fault her for her choice. He would never question her self-autonomy, as angry as he was with Cassian for playing a part in her decision. She stood up straighter and faced her cousin, only briefly glancing at Cassian, who was mopping blood from his arm with his ripped shirt.

“I’m ruined now,” she told him, her voice struggling not to waver. “I've debased myself with a so-called bastard faerie. Your father won’t have any ramifications from my decision. But I will own up to this, and if they cast me out, then so be it.” Mor lightly touched Rhys on the arm, assuring him even as she tried to assure herself. “You forget that I’m more powerful than they are, Rhysand."

“I hope so,” was all he said, and he trudged off in silence in the direction of the house, leaving Cassian in the dust. Mor looked up at Azriel and was surprised to find his eyes already on her. She tried to smile.

“I’m sorry."

“Don’t,” Az said quickly, glancing quickly in Cassian’s direction and sighing. His shadows swirled around him angrily, unable to settle after the events of the morning. “You did what you had to do. None of us blame you for that."

He might not blame her, but Mor could tell there was a “but” lingering behind his words. And she was too scared and too suddenly angry with herself to ask what it was. So she only said, “Please fly me back to the house,” and he obliged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my poor babies have a lot in store for them. :(


	11. Heathens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _All my friends are heathens take it slow..._   
>  _Wait for them to ask you who you know..._   
>  _Please don't make any sudden moves..._

For the next two days, the house was as quiet as a temple. They all rarely spoke to each other, save for the occasional exchange with Lady Iorea. Cassian left early every morning to train, knowing better than to ask Mor if she wanted to join him. Mor hadn’t seen Azriel since he had flown her back that day - he had taken to the skies almost immediately upon placing her down on the front step. Rhys was around, but he was agitated. Mor could tell that his anger hadn’t quite worn off yet, and the prospect of her having to return to her father was causing him immense grief. He felt, Mor knew, completely powerless in his inability to do anything about it.

But Mor was coming to terms with it, and she told him as much that afternoon. She had made her decision - she would go willingly with whomever came to retrieve her, and once alone with her father, she would disclose her supposed loss of worth. She would deal with whatever manner he decided to dispose of her; it wouldn’t matter so long as she got out. There was no way he could save his power play once she made her move, and Keir would no longer have a need for his daughter.

Rhys was skeptical, but he trusted Mor, as much as it pained him to see her take this last resort, as much as he hated that she had no other options. He wouldn’t reveal it, but Mor knew he was afraid for her. And she was afraid too. There were so many variables - and there was no certainty that she could avoid being a bride of the Autumn Court.

That night, she tossed and turned in her bed for so long that she could hardly stand to lay there for another moment. She threw the blankets away and swung her legs over the bed, sitting up and looking out the window. The stars glimmered in the clear night sky high above, and the mountains in the distance traced their way across the sky as if following their brightness. Mor tore her eyes away, unable to think about the possibility of never seeing that Night Court sky ever again.

She tiptoed quietly down the stairs to the kitchen. Maybe a cup of tea would help. Or a glass of wine. Mor began to rummage through the cabinet for a glass when she heard a groan coming from the couch.

Shit. Rhys was stressed enough - he didn’t need to be woken with her clanging around in the kitchen in the middle of the night. But when the male sat up and Mor opened her mouth to apologize, she realized it wasn’t Rhysand on the couch.

“Az?"

“What are you doing down here so late?” the shadowsinger grumbled. His dark blue nightshirt clung to his muscular abdomen as he pulled it down, his shadows snaking around his arms.

“Couldn’t sleep. Why are you on the couch?” Mor asked, an eyebrow raised.

“Couldn’t sleep either. At least, not in the same room as him.” Azriel pressed the back of his hand to his eyes, rubbing them as if the room was too bright. The moon wasn’t out, and Mor hadn’t even lit a candle.

She frowned. “Is Rhys up there?"

“No. He went flying. Told me to take the couch."

Mor sighed. “That prick needs to sleep.” She looked back in the cabinet and selected two mugs. She silently heated the water and made tea, and then took a seat next to Azriel on the couch, handing him one of the mugs.

“Thank you,” he said shortly, sipping. His shadows were light, but one tendril drifted its way around his ear and down, down toward the mug of tea.

“Do the shadows speak to you?” Mor asked as the one she had been watching dissipated. At her mention of them, several more appeared, clouding around his wings and his back.

Azriel looked at her tentatively and took another sip of tea before answering. “Sometimes,” he said. “They’re like a physical embodiment of my instincts. They show me things, tell me things. Sometimes they give me warnings."

“So the one that just swirled around your mug-"

“Telling me it wasn’t poisoned.” The corner of his mouth turned up slightly. “Sometimes the warnings are unnecessary."

Mor smiled lightly and watched him for a moment. She felt strangely drawn to the shadows, and she was just now noticing how her own magic whispered to his, wanting to know more, wanting to explore, wanting to mix her truth with his secrets. She reached a hand out and Azriel watched her run a hand through one of the shadows. It stayed there, clouded over her fingers, and faded slowly.

Mor dropped her hand and looked back at Azriel, his eyes curious and questioning. “I’m glad that we’re friends, Az,” she whispered, looking down. "I hope you still want to be, at least, after what I did."

He was silent for several moments, and Mor braced herself for whatever he would throw at her, when he put two fingers under her chin and lifted her gaze to his. “I do,” he murmured, but the way his eyes fixated on his scarred hand as he quickly dropped his fingers, as if her skin had brought him phantom feelings of burning, didn’t inspire confidence.

Mor caught his gaze again though, and saw it soften. “Will you be there tomorrow, Az? When my father comes for me?"

“If you want me to be,” he replied, one eyebrow raised.

“I do. He needs to see that I’ve made friends here,” Mor glanced down at the Illyrian blade just beneath her feet, strategically stored under the couch for easy access as Azriel had slept. “Powerful friends. Loyal friends.” He nodded in agreement and understanding, and Mor felt a weight lift from her heart. “What’s your blade called?"

Azriel looked at her questioningly.

“Your blade. Does it have a name?” Mor asked, gesturing to it on the floor.

Azriel shook his head. “No. Not yet."

“Every blade has to have a name. How are you supposed to defend me with a nameless blade?"

To her surprise, Azriel laughed softly. “I’ll defend you as well with a nameless blade as you can defend yourself."

She smiled. "Thanks, Az. I’m sorry I woke you."

“Don’t be,” he said as he shifted his hand on the couch, as if to reach for her, but thought twice about it and stilled. Mor stood, placing a hand on Azriel’s arm in silent thanks, and wondered, as she walked back to her bedroom, why the shadows seemed to race away from any place she touched him. Almost as if they trusted her.

The tea helped her sleep better.

The next morning came too quickly. Mor walked downstairs with a heavy weight in her stomach, and she sat down at the table with Rhys, Iorea, and Azriel, unable to even look at the food. None of them ate anything, and the meager breakfast sat cold on the table as the four of them tried to make light small talk.

After a long and agonizing half-hour, a loud crack sounded outside, and Mor’s stomach plummetted. Iorea tensely stood from her seat, nodding at Rhys. He rubbed a hand over his face, but stood also, and looked at Mor with a pained expression.

“Are you sure?” he asked her, his voice cracking. “I’ll go with you, damn the consequences -"

“Rhys,” Mor stood, surprised that she remained steady, and put a hand on his arm. “This is my choice. And you know my power. I’ll be able to handle this."

Rhys gave her a nod of genuine confidence and the four of them went to the door. Azriel stood tall at Mor’s right shoulder, and Rhys was behind her, and she found the strength to open the door.

In the dust beyond the house stood two of Mor’s cousins, frowning in distaste at their location and in disgust at the Illyrian warrior leaning on the foundation of the house. Cassian turned and watched as Mor exited the house, and followed behind her, flanking her on her left and completing the guard at her back. She held her head high, all of them silent as they crossed the grounds to meet her cousins.

Aeron, a cousin a few decades older, had a smug smile pasted on his face now. His sandy blonde hair was sleeked back to the point of greasiness, which she supposed was an accurate depiction of his personality. He had been working under her father’s watchful eye for the past several years as an apprentice, honing his political skills and showing off his meager power to manipulate darkness. He hated Rhys, she knew, but he’d never so much as given Mor a second glance.

Emil, on the other hand, had the decency to look skeptically at her entourage. His narrow, brown eyes moved from Azriel, to Cassian, and finally, to Rhys. This cousin was closer in age to them, less than a decade older, and as far as Mor knew, he had no special magic to speak of whatsoever. He wore his platinum blonde hair longer, almost too long to be socially acceptable in the Hewn City, but today it was primly tied back with leather. He looked like he had dressed for the occasion, and he stood out like a daisy in the Winter Court here in this Illyrian war camp.

“Morrigan,” Aeron addressed her, but he was looking at Rhys. “Rhysand. So this is where you’ve been playing this last decade.” He gestured with his hand to the tents and training rings beyond them.

“Always a pleasure, Aeron. Have you managed to darken an entire room above ground yet?” Rhys asked casually, flicking a piece of non-existent lint off of his leathers as he let down the damper on his powers. Night leaked off of him in great waves of power, and Mor smirked.

“While I’d love to discuss your pretty tricks,” Aeron spat, “I’ve come to collect Morrigan. Come,” he commanded, finally deigning to look at her. Azriel stiffened at her side. She didn’t move.

“Aren’t you going to ask who my friends are?” Mor mused, crossing her arms. Aeron gave her an incredulous look, as if he hadn’t expected her to speak, and Emil sized her up, a pensive scowl on his face. She laughed harshly, but lightly, and gestured to her side. “Azriel. Cassian. This is Aeron, and this is Emil. They're cousins of ours. I know they look like target practice,” she narrowed her eyes as she spoke, “but Aeron has some shadow tricks as well. Nothing like yours though, Az.” Mor glanced to her side and saw that Azriel’s shadows were billowing in full force, and her smug smile returned as she took in her cousins.

“I suppose my father sent you as his lackeys?"

“He’s already in the Autumn Court. We deliver you directly there,” Emil finally spoke, standing with his chest puffed out, as if that made him look anything like the males at her back.

“Keir informed me,” Rhys said with deadly calm, “that she would be going to the Hewn City."

“Your father wanted to avoid any unnecessary… interruptions,” Aeron sneered. As the High Lord’s heir, Rhysand wouldn’t be able to enter the Autumn Court without disrupting fundamental border laws. Mor felt his anger flare from behind him. “From you or your bastard friends."

Mor put a hand out to stop Cassian as soon as he shifted his position. She could feel him ready with his red siphons glowing beside her. “Not worth it,” she said, even as she thought the opposite, Aeron darkly chuckling at the Illyrian to her left.

Scowling, Mor stepped forward to avoid a brawl. She would go, even if this looked like a trap, even if she hated all of this. She would go and she would fight her way out. She wouldn’t hide any longer.

Azriel was the only one who stepped forward with her. She turned and gave him a weak smile. “It’s okay, Az,” she whispered, and he stepped back in line with his brothers, never taking his hazel eyes off of her.

Seeing them there, united again to see her off, to support her, gave Mor hope. She knew it was a false bravado, a front put up to show her slimy cousins who they would have to answer to if anything happened to her, but nonetheless, it gave her hope that maybe she hadn’t ruined their friendship. Not forever. That maybe she was even a part of it now.

Mor continued to walk until she was standing just before her cousins, and held out her hand to Aeron. “After you."

With a brief smile to each of her three Illyrian warriors, Rhys looking worried, Cassian murderous, and Azriel unreadable as always, Mor and her cousins vanished into thin air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When you accidentally write a chapter of squad goals...  
> Stay tuned for Keir & Eris reactions in the next chapter!! (which should be up within a few days... I've written much of it already. This chapter was supposed to include it, but it was getting too long and it felt right to split it up.)
> 
> Chapter title from the Twenty One Pilots song of the same name.


	12. Burning Bridges

Aeron had to winnow them several separate times, for his power was not immense enough to get them from the Illyrian camp all the way south to the Autumn Court. Mor found this incredibly exhausting, and she almost offered to take them the rest of the way after the third winnow, but she also enjoyed watching her cousin struggle.

A few minutes later, they crashed into a hill situated in a forest clearing, trees of crimson and gold and orange all around them. Mor tore from Aeron’s hard grip on her wrist easily, and stepped forward. The chill in the air bit at her cheeks, but the heavy sweater she wore protected her from the breeze. Still, she wrapped her arms around her waist, suddenly very cold.

Beyond the clearing sat an enormous palace of white and brick red. She had never seen anything like it in her life. The House of Wind, enclosed within a mountainside, and even the palace high above the Hewn City, elegant and large and open, were completely different from this. Towers rose hundreds of feet in the air, flags with the Autumn Court sigil flying from each and every one. A massive wall of brick enclosed the entire yard, guards at every entry point.

Even from here, Mor could see servants milling about in the adjacent orchard and sentries departing on their horses for the forest beyond. The yard was busy with activity, and she glimpsed a collection of faeries building a structure beyond the palace.

Arches. It was only then she realized why the palace must be so busy. She swallowed, hard.

“A hoard of pretentious pricks, these Autumn Court Fae,” Aeron sneered.

Mor snorted at the irony, but bit back her retort when the front gate of the fortress began to open. Her stomach dropped. She could winnow far away from here, she could run and hide, never to be found again-

No. She would not live a life in fear. She would take her freedom, whatever the cost. But still, it unnerved her that she was alone here, not even with the comfort of Rhysand at her back, and this was all going to come down to her. Her power. Her ability to gain her own freedom, with no allies and no friends.

Mor snapped to attention when the gates fully opened and a woman stepped through. She was unaccompanied, and very, very pregnant, and she waved to the three of them to come forward.

Mor took in the woman as they walked up to the gate. Her bright auburn hair was tied back into an elegant bun, a few curls pulled out to frame her face. Her skin was pale, but a graceful blush painted her cheeks. The High Fae's russet eyes were kind, but distant in a way that made Mor’s heart sink. The woman placed a hand absentmindedly on the swell of her stomach as Mor, Aeron, and Emil approached.

“Welcome to the Autumn Court,” the woman said in a soft voice, a smile on her lips that didn’t reach her eyes.

“Lady Laurel,” Emil nodded his head at her. “We’ve come to deliver your son’s bride."

Mor blinked, taking in the Lady of Autumn Court before her. The distant kindness in her eyes suddenly made sense. She probably didn’t have much use for that kindness, living here.

“You must be Morrigan,” she said, looking into Mor’s own brown eyes. Her nostrils flared slightly, and Mor was suddenly aware of the mud caked into her boots and the tangles in her blonde hair. “I’ll show you to your rooms, and we’ll have the servants assist you in bathing before you meet with your father.”

Aeron scoffed, but said nothing, and both of her cousins exited toward the stables as they bid the Lady of the Autumn Court farewell. Lady Laurel gestured for Mor to follow her through the gates, and the two women entered the courtyard of the palace together.

Leaves were strewn on the grounds in the most organized way possible, as if they hadn’t naturally fallen there. Rather, they looked perfectly placed, for none obstructed the walkways and the colors seemed perfectly mixed together on the lawn. The whole place looked like a farce, and Mor didn’t think it was just her truth magic that gave her a sour taste in her mouth about it.

“You’re a beautiful girl, Morrigan,” the Lady interrupted Mor’s thoughts as they walked toward the palace doors. “You will fit well here, I think."

“Actually, I think I have many better qualities than just my beauty,” Mor replied hastily, and immediately regretted it. It wasn’t Lady Laurel’s fault she was here. She was probably the only one who would show her any kindness in this court.

But the Lady just chuckled lightly, elegantly. “So I’ve heard,” she said. “My Eris will have his work cut out for him.” Her light smile turned to a frown, as if something about her son bothered her, and Mor felt a pang of pity for this woman. She likely was in the exact place Mor was in, long ago, and she hadn’t been able to get out. Mor smiled at her as the guards opened the door to the palace and the pair stepped inside.

The inside of the castle was just as, if not more, extravagant than the outside. Chandeliers of gold lined the ceilings, which were carved with ornate designs of leaves and apples and vines. The inside was much less bustling than the courtyard, and the only others in sight were two servants.

Lady Laurel lead Mor up a grand staircase and into a dimly lit hallways lined with doors. As she walked, the Lady lit the lanterns at each door with a wave of her hand, and Mor silently wondered, if she were to live here, if she would be given as much liberty to use her own power.

They stopped in front of the last door in the hallway, tucked into a corner away from the rest of the rooms. “Feel free to bathe and rest, dear. I’ll send up a servant-”

“I can bathe myself,” Mor interrupted her, then smiled, regretting how much resentment she had toward the woman. “Thank you,” she added.

“By all means,” Lady Laurel said, gesturing toward the door. “Your father will summon you within the hour."

Mor fought the urge to bite back a nasty reply, nodding instead in thanks, and entered the room, shutting the door behind her with magic. She instantly had a deep feeling of terror, one that had begun to build the moment she entered Autumn Court territory, but it hit her here and now that she was alone.

The bedroom, however, was lovely enough, with a large wooden, canopied bed adorned with maroon blankets and soft beige sheets. The adjoining bathroom had a tub large enough for two, and Mor instantly shed her clothing and filled it, sinking deep into the hot water. She tried as hard as she could to shake the uneasy feeling in her gut, but it persisted, and she washed absent-mindedly as she awaited her fate.

About an hour later, Mor had dressed in a simple wine-colored gown and was brushing her hair when a servant knocked and entered. She was young and quite small, and couldn’t have been older than Mor. Her dark brown hair was tied up tightly, and she entered the room like someone trying to make herself invisible. “Lady Morrigan,” she said softly. “The Lord awaits in the dining antechamber. May I escort you?”

Mor had to hold back her snort. Keir, a Lord? Rhysand would get a laugh from that one. Her father certainly held himself high and mighty in this powerful court, and Mor wondered if the High Lord of Night knew how he presented himself to their potential allies. “Thank you,” Mor said absently as she followed the small girl into the hallway and to a nearby dining room.

She tried hard not to shake, but as that uneasy feeling settled more firmly in her stomach, Mor suddenly felt a wave of nausea pulse through her. She pushed it deep, deep down, keeping her composure, and attempted to settle her mind. She’d wait for the right moment, she would tear down her father’s pride and the marriage alliance with it, and she would face the punishment, whatever it was.

It would be worth it to escape. It would be worth whatever shame she would endure just to know that she would never have to endure it again. She would escape, even with Rhys unable to enter these boundaries. She’d overpower them.

She hoped.

Her hope wavered the moment Mor stepped inside the room and met cold eyes. But they were not her father’s.

The servant curtsied and practically sprinted out of the room as the tension became thick as the walls surrounding this fortress. And Eris, the Lord that Mor now realized the servant had been referring to, stood from where he had been waiting at the head of the table, his hands braced on the polished wood. The look on his face made Mor want to scratch it off.

“Morrigan,” Eris said coldly. “Join me."

“Where is my father?” Mor asked, not moving from her spot at the door.

“With mine. They’ll arrive in due time,” Eris mused, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. “I wanted to greet my wife myself."

“Why not fetch me yourself from the Night Court then?” Mor asked, and Eris raised an eyebrow. “Does the heir to the Autumn Court so fear the heir to the Night Court that he sends my father’s lackeys after me rather than capture his prize for himself?"

Eris’s mouth formed a deadly smirk, and he pushed back his chair with a wave of his hand. She held her ground, feeling a well of magic building deep within her.

Suddenly, Eris was in her face, having winnowed the mere feet from the table to her. She stumbled back, and he chuckled. “I fear no one and nothing,” Eris sneered, a ball of fire forming in his hand. “Least of all, you or your half-breed excuse for a cousin."

This male was an incarnation of pure disgust, and his falsities hit Mor like arrows. He likely expected his show of power to scare her, but Mor had other plans. She braced herself to winnow to the other side of the room-

She didn’t move. Eris saw the shock on her face and laughed.

“Do you appreciate our powerful wards? Only Autumn Court can winnow within these castle walls,” Eris stepped forward, forcing Mor back against the door. “You’ll be safe and sound here."

Mor tried not to panic. She still had her other magic, her truth. She could feel it screaming at her, _Don’t trust him. He lies, he lies, he lies._ She wondered if this was what Azriel’s shadows sounded like when they spoke to him.

The thought of the Illyrian warrior gave her the strength to collect herself. “I’m not staying here,” Mor declared, bracing her hands on the door behind her.

Eris chuckled darkly. “In a few days time, I will have you as my wife,” he put a finger under her chin and lifted it up, an errant spark of his fire singing her skin. She grimaced as his nostrils flared widely. “And you will do as I say. We’re well-matched, I hear. But I’ve got an arsenal of power that you, my dear, might want to avoid.” He surrounded them with flames, hot and heavy, though unable to burn them.

“You have no idea what I can do, Eris,” Mor declared. “I will not allow this wedding to go forward."

“It’s already done, my pet,” he purred, and Mor could feel the sliminess leaking from him. “I will take you and wipe this dirty bastard warrior smell right off of you. I told them to make sure you bathed before they brought you from that camp."

Mor smirked, and it threw Eris off enough that he dropped his finger. “I’m not sure this scent will die away so easily,” she mused. “Considering one of those bastard warriors already took me, or so you say."

Eris didn’t reply, so Mor laughed, pushing off the door and making him step back. “That’s right, Eris. I don’t smell like this because I didn’t bathe. I smell like this because I fucked one of them. The greatest of them, actually,” she kept his gaze as she put her own finger under his chin. “He uses seven siphons to contain all of his power. Most Illyrians use one, if that. I doubt someone lesser,” Mor looked him up and down, frowning, “will satisfy me for the rest of my immortal life. So don’t call me your pet."

Without warning, Eris moved, shoving Mor into the wall beside the door. His hands singed her arms, and even while they healed immediately, Mor yelped in pain. She attempted to throw him off, but he was a High Lord’s heir. He was stronger, physically, than her, with decades of training on her two weeks of self-defense.

Before Eris could speak, the door beside them creaked open, and Keir and Beron stepped in. Eris stepped back slowly, without taking his eyes off of Mor, and bowed his head at his father in greeting. Mor dared a glance at her father, whose nostrils were already flaring, likely alight with the scent of every Illyrian warrior she’d been near for the past two weeks. He looked furious.

“Getting acquainted I see,” Lord Beron mused, walking toward the dining room table with Keir at his heels. “You’ll have plenty of time for that later."

Ignoring his father, Eris rounded on Keir, who stepped back in surprise when he found a finger pointed in his face. “You told me she was pure,” Eris spat. “Marriageable. How dare you insult me in this way?"

“Eris,” Beron chided, pushing Keir away to face his son. “What are you talking about?” Keir’s nostrils were flaring again as he stared at Mor, and she looked into his cold eyes, confirming his suspicions. _That’s right. You don’t own me. Not anymore._

“She,” Eris yelled, directing an array of errant sparks at Mor, “has just informed me of her - _activities_ \- from these past two weeks."

Keir mustered the courage to walk up to her at this point, sniffing her very blatantly. “What have you done, Morrigan?"

Mor held his gaze, feeling Eris literally steaming beside her. “I chose,” she said plainly. “You didn’t give me an option, so I gave one to myself."

“She sullied herself with a bastard-born faerie,” he snarled at Keir. “She told me before you arrived. She has the power of truth, so I assume she is not lying."

Keir tore his gaze from Mor and looked at Eris, whose eyes were alight with his fire. He said nothing.

"You let that cousin of hers take her to that camp and he turned a blind eye as his bastard friends dirtied my possession,” he continued, yelling in her father’s face.

“Let’s sit down and discuss this-“ Keir started, but he looked over and saw the equal disgust in Beron’s eyes, and Mor knew it was over.

“Discuss? There’s no longer anything to discuss. Why would we want an alliance with you when you’re too weak to control your own daughter?” Eris demanded.

Mor’s eyes widened as a weight lifted from her stomach. He didn’t want her.

She wouldn’t marry Eris.

And yet something deep inside her was screaming, blocking any relief or happiness from coming: _Danger, danger, danger._

The murderous look in her father’s eyes was enough to confirm her intuition.

“Get out of my sight. I won’t marry a whore. I’d sooner fuck a sow,” Eris blasted sparks at Keir and he stepped back, cringing as they hit him. The heir stomped out of the room, flames tailing him, and silence pervaded the room for a few moments.

“Lord Beron,” Keir addressed the High Lord, but Beron’s face showed no mercy. “We should confirm your son’s declaration. This alliance rides on too much for it to break from suspicion."

“We can all smell her, Keir,” Beron looked at Mor with dismissive disgust. “Don’t shame yourself further with your groveling. Run off to the Night Court before my son decides to take matters into his own hands."

“Milord-"

“You’d do well to discard her if you ever want a fighting chance for power again, Keir,” Beron shook his head. “I’ll be having a word with your High Lord about his son."

It took every ounce of restraint for Mor not to lunge at the High Lord. She knew it would be suicide if she did. “It wasn’t Rhysand’s fault,” she spat anyway, and Lord Beron raised an eyebrow angrily. “I did this."

“You’re a young girl. Someone is responsible for your actions,” Beron’s eyes lifted to her father, who looked like he would slit her throat then and there. “And your father, clearly, isn’t capable."

With that, Beron waved both hands toward them, and suddenly Mor and her father were ripping through time and space, Beron winnowing them without actually winnowing with them. Both landed hard on the ground outside of the mountain that housed the Hewn City, and Keir cursed loudly, standing over Mor as she caught her breath in the dirt.

“You dirty whore,” Keir screamed, and Mor braced herself. She knew this was coming. But she had made it out of the Autumn Court, and she just needed to wait for Keir to leave her here in the dust before she’d be back at the Illyrian camp with Rhysand.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” he spat, and she stared at him, eyes narrow.

“I saved myself from a life of torture with a sadistic husband,” Mor said baldly.

“You stupid, stupid girl. That alliance would have made our family powerful. Rich. This was so much bigger than you, and now you’ve started a feud that could last centuries.” The sky cracked loudly then and Aeron and Emil fell into the dirt beside them.

“What the hell,” Aeron coughed looking at Keir. “Lord Eris just-“ His gaze moved to Mor and he sneered with disgust. "I knew I smelled a male on you. I should’ve known you’d whore yourself-"

“Aeron,” Keir interrupted her cousin, holding out his hand. “Do you have it, still?"

Mor paled. “Have what?"

Aeron only smiled cruelly.

“Morrigan,” Keir said with deadly calm, standing over her. “You have shamed this entire family. You say you had no choice in this matter?” Keir bent down to look her in the eye. “We have no choice here, either. If we are ever going to keep a shred of our dignity, our power… Beron was right. We’d do well to discard you."

“Then discard me. Let me go free,” Mor spat at her father.

To her surprise, Keir laughed.

She didn’t think she had ever heard her father laugh before. But he laughed.

“Dearest daughter, what would that say about me? It would only reinforce that you’ve got more power. And that won’t do."

Mor’s eyes widened as Aeron fished into his pocket and drew out a pair of handcuffs.

Handcuffs of blue stone. She’d seen such a substance before, in her nightmares...

This wasn’t right. Her father was supposed to abandon her, she was supposed to escape, she was supposed to be free-

Mor fumbled to rise from the ground but before she could move, her cousins were pinning her down. She tried desperately to winnow, but her magic felt weak, like it had when her father had locked in her room all those weeks ago.

She kicked and struggled but the three males together were able to overpower her enough to get the handcuffs on. And her magic died.

“Get off of me!” Mor screamed as Aeron and Emil picked her up. Her father had a look of determination on his cruel face, and crossed his arms as he watched her struggle.

“Silence her,” he said, and with an elbow to her face, Mor felt her nose crack. Her healing powers weren’t working, and with another elbow to the same spot, everything went black.


	13. Oh Ms Believer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***WARNING***: This chapter has graphic violence, torture, blood, and other extremely distressing violent imagery. I struggled very much to make this realistic to Mor's experience without making it unreadable. Be cautious reading this chapter if you are triggered by violence.

Midnight blackness flooded her eyesight. There was no difference from the backs of her eyelids and the darkness of this room.

Mor's head pounded to the beat of her racing heart as she tried to adjust her eyes to the light, but to no avail. _Thump, thump, thump._ Cauldron, she could barely breathe, and she couldn’t move a muscle.

Still drowning in darkness, Mor began to realize several things at once.

She was lying flat on her back. Her limbs were chained to whatever surface she was pressed up against. And the tangy, coppery smell of blood filled her broken nose as she attempted to breathe.

“Help,” she tried to say, but it came out more like a croak. Her throat was dry and raw, exactly how it felt when she woke up screaming from a nightmare.

Maybe this was a nightmare. _Wake up, Mor._ She shifted as much as she could to try and anchor herself to reality, but it seemed this _was_ reality.

Mor groaned and tried to lift her head off the surface before she realized her neck was chained too. As she pushed against the restraint, she felt blood drip down from her nose to her chin. She felt the same stickiness on her wrists, her ankles, and her thighs as she began to twist and struggle against the chains.

“Help!” she cried louder this time, tears falling from her burning eyes.

“No one can help you,” a female voice said from somewhere on her left, and she jumped enough that her chains scratched at her limbs, forming new gashes.

Suddenly, she was blinded with a burst of light as a door opened into the room and a figure stepped in with a lantern. Mor craned her neck to look at the approaching silhouette, and she blinked several times to make sure she was seeing correctly.

“Mother?”

Deva stepped silently to Mor’s chained body, the lines of her face contorted pensively. It took Mor a moment to read the disgust that was there as well.

Her mother said nothing, but clicked her tongue in chastisement as she moved around Mor to attend to something she couldn’t see behind her head. As the light from the lantern flooded her vision, Mor realized she was lying flat on a long, iron table in the middle of an otherwise empty dungeon chamber. The walls were dusty, as if they hadn’t been touched in years, and the stone ceiling had cracks and cobwebs scattered through out. This, Mor thought, was a place they took someone when they didn’t want anyone to find her. She fought harder against her chains.

“Mother,” Mor pleaded. “What’s going on?"

Deva sighed. “I don’t like this Mor,” she circled the table, leaving the lantern behind her. She would not meet her daughter’s gaze. “But our shame must be handled."

“Mother.” Mor felt a tear fall down her cheek. "Just let me go. Banish me. Please,” Mor choked on a sob. “I’m your daughter."

Deva merely looked at her without actually looking _at_ her, and turned on her heel to leave the room.

Mor cursed, pulling at the chains. She needed to get out of here. She needed to let Rhys know where she was, she needed water, she needed to get these awful magic-restricting chains off of her and blow this stupid mountain to smithereens.

The door opened again, and someone else came into the dungeon. No lantern this time.

“Where am I?” she demanded, still struggling against her restraints.

“In hell, where you belong,” the voice said, and Mor recognized it this time. She mustered every bit of energy she could as Aeron walked into her line of sight, and she spat in his direction.

“Feisty,” he purred, wiping the spit from his brow. “Not for long, pet.” Mor growled with disgust. Aeron’s gaze pierced her as he moved her mother's lantern to the surface Mor was lying on. He chuckled darkly, and deliberately pushed the lantern close enough to burn one of her fingers.

She jerked away just enough to avoid the flame. “What the hell is this? Let me go, you disgusting prick. And I’m not your pet,” Mor snapped as Aeron continued to stare at her as if she were his own personal plaything. She would burn his eyes out when she got out of these chains.

“You’re no longer anyone’s pet, Morrigan. As far as everyone in the world knows, you’re as good as dead,” Aeron brushed Mor’s hair to one side with a slimy, dirty finger and Mor cringed. “Not even your bastard will miss you, whore."

“Don’t touch me,” Mor tried to keep her voice steady as she shook at the implications of his words. _Fight back. Make him pay._ But her body betrayed her as she heard Aeron pick something up off of what she assumed was a table or a wall behind her. He rounded the corner quickly, a dagger in hand. She tried to scream, but found that her voice was long, long gone.

“Did your bastard like how pure you were?” Aeron mused, turning the knife over in his hands. He leaned down over her, and she wondered why her voice couldn’t work, why her mouth wouldn’t open. “Did he enjoy how,” he flicked the knife so it just grazed her collarbone, and she found herself able to produce only a dull shriek in her throat, “untouched you were?”

Blood welled up in the gash, and like all of the rest of her wounds, it wasn’t healing. She thrashed her head up violently, and it almost hit Aeron’s. He pulled back, laughing.

Suddenly, the door opened once again, and Mor trembled with fear as Emil stepped in and was nearly knocked over by her father barreling inside behind him. The restriction on her throat let up, and she immediately snarled with wrath.

“Can someone tell me what the _fuck_ ,” Mor burst out when Keir stopped in front of her, dressed in all of his finery, his face fuming, “you think you’re doing?"

“Language, Morrigan,” Keir snapped as he stepped closer to her, the door slamming behind him. “Must you shame us further with your filthy mouth? Aeron, I thought I told you to keep her silenced."

Mor’s throat tightened again - some type of magic from Aeron, then - and she growled deep in her throat as she thrashed on the table with all of her strength. Keir ordered her cousins to restrain her further, and she tensed at the feel of their hands on her body.

“Now, now, Morrigan. Don’t make this harder than it has to be,” Aeron said as he wrapped his hand around a particularly painful gash on her wrist. “The less you fight, the quicker we can get rid of you,” he chuckled again.

Keir shoved her cousin aside and leaned over her prone body, taking her in with a flick of his gaze. “Punishment fit for a whore. That’s what will befall you for ruining your worth and putting both my power and my political status to shame,” he snarled. Mor coughed, her father’s breath too close to her face and too hard to avoid with how little she could breathe.

Suddenly, Keir grabbed a handful of Mor’s tattered hair and _pulled_ , and Mor felt something in her throat pop as she tried to scream, Aeron’s power holding her throat on a tight leash. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done, Mor? I’m ruined. This whole family is ruined. Your selfishness has cost this whole Court an alliance that would make us rich beyond our wildest dreams.” Keir kept a firm grasp on her hair as he reached behind him and produced a knife. “You want to ruin us? I’ll ruin you for whatever sorry bastard Eris decides to dump you on.” With a slash of his knife, Keir cut Mor’s hair from just above where he held it, the blonde pieces falling in waves to the dirty dungeon floor.

_It’s just hair,_ Mor thought, but she knew this was only the beginning. Keir was going to leave her scarred and burned and bruised for Eris, and the gods only knew what he would do to her after Keir was finished with her.

“Keep her awake,” Keir snapped at Emil, who was standing in a shadowy corner watching everything play out. “I want her to feel every part of this. I want her to find out just how much shame she has brought me."

Mor coughed again, and again, and promptly vomited bile on herself. Aeron laughed, causing him to slip in his control of her voice. “Your High Lord will have you all misted for this,” she sneered before Aeron could get a grip on her vocal chords again.

Keir laughed, holding his knife close to her throat. “Considering all of this will be Eris’s doing, and you likely won’t live to tell the truth, I think we’ll be in the clear."

As Keir slashed down, ripping her shirt open, Mor felt herself start to pass out and felt a grip on her mind stop her.

_Daemati._ That’s why Keir kept Emil around, despite his reluctance in the area of violence and cruelty.

“And if you do live,” Aeron sneered, stepping up beside her father. “We’ll make sure none of your bastard friends will ever want to touch you again.”

Aeron took his own dagger and scratched a thin line down Mor’s chest, between her exposed breasts, and down to her stomach. She felt the poison leech in before she smelled it, even through her bloodied nose. Even with healing powers, which were non-existent with the strange blue chains, the wound would not heal with magic alone.

“Admit it,” Aeron snarled, his knife lifting suddenly as he pressed it hard to her throat. “Admit you’re a whore."

He lifted the pressure on her vocal chords momentarily, but Mor said nothing.

“Prideful bitch,” he dropped his knife and reached for the lantern, shaking ashes onto her chest. Mor tried to scream and heard the sizzling of the embers on her skin, tried not to smell the burning flesh of her dreams. She balled her hands into fists at the pain, recognizing it, remembering it, realizing it was a premonition of her truth powers all along that kept her up at night. Aeron set the lantern between her legs, the flames searing her inner thighs with unbearable heat, and even Emil’s daemati powers couldn’t keep her fully cognizant.

Mor fell in and out of consciousness, jarred abruptly awake in fits of weak daemati power as Keir and Aeron shouted in her face. _Admit you’re a whore. Admit to your shame. Admit to your humiliation. Confess. Whore, whore, whore._ The words washed over her dully, and the restriction on her throat would lessen, and Mor would refuse to say anything. And she was punished.

They cut her with their poisoned knives. They burned her with fire and embers, only where a man would see her if she defiled herself once more.

Her skin burned and welted, skin peeling off of her upper thighs, her breasts, her abdomen. She screamed in her dreams, but she couldn’t even give herself that bit of relief here, now, in reality, as her family grabbed at her wounds and set them on fire again and again and again.

They became angry when she stopped fighting, stopped moving, stopped being a challenge for their masculine pride to overcome, and they hit her, bruises forming on her arms, her abdomen, her face.

Her father, her cousins, her family… and even her mother, she _knew_ …

When they were finished with their violence, they continued to yell in her face. _Whore. Harlot. You need to be cleaned._ Someone, Mor didn’t even know who at this point, scrubbed her fresh and bleeding wounds with what must have been metal, it was scratchy and painful and deepened every slice and burn. Mor felt everything, every wound, every burn, every insult, although mutely, for the pain was so great that she almost felt separated from her body. Blood warmed her face and her legs and her wrists and ankles, her neck and her scalp, where bits of hair had been yanked from the root.

Her father and her cousins relented momentarily, murmuring behind her, as Mor’s eyes fluttered blissfully closed and she felt herself fade. Mor felt her very essence leech out of her as she fell from consciousness, her magic, her strength, her power, her dreams, everything she once believed in fell short with the pain and the hurt she felt in every fiber of her being. She wanted to sleep, wanted to fall away and never return to this world. She almost did. 

But, vaguely, she found herself remembering someone who had suffered like she had. Whose family locked him in a dungeon, much like this one, to burn him and keep him from his freedom. And he didn't fade. He didn't give up. So she wouldn't, she couldn't. For him, for that eight-year-old boy with no hope and no love, she would fight to get back from this. Because she _did_ have people who loved her.

At this thought, Mor almost felt relief from her pain. Until Aeron’s voice jarred her eardrum, snickering, “For good measure."

And Mor opened her eyes enough to watch her father placing a thin wooden board on her bloody stomach. In an angry flex of his arms, Keir raised a hammer and jammed the nail into her abdomen in one swift motion. And she finally blacked out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Nessian_Is_Fire for all of your answers to my medical/science questions regarding Mor's injuries and for dealing with my actual mental breakdown writing this chapter.
> 
> Chapter title is from the Twenty One Pilots song of the same name.


	14. Hope In The Darkness

She knew it wasn’t a nightmare.

No, in her nightmares, she was always warm. Always overheated, burning, slicked with sweat. She always woke up wanting to shed her skin away. She knew now that it was because she’d known the truth, she’d feared it - the fire.

But she was cold.

So, so cold.

The cold was the only thought she could latch onto, the only sensation she could feel, the only truth she knew.

Cold.

Ice. Frost. Unfeeling, unmovable, unyielding, so thick that if it would splinter and crack, the whole world would meet its end. So cold that it separated her from her body, so cold that she felt nothing and everything all at once.

Chilled. Frozen. Unbearable.

Numb.

She tried to shiver, tried to open her eyes. A gust of chilling wind. A jolt of pain in her abdomen. A crunch of leaves. A voice of dark, hefty laughter.

\------

The pain was unbearable enough to nearly knock her into unconsciousness again as Mor opened her eyes to the bright light of day. Squinting, she groaned, but found she could make no sound. She was moving, moving so fast, that at first she tried to stop and nearly panicked when she couldn’t. Until she realized she was not moving at all, only shaking violently.

Her skin was so numb, so cold. She supposed that was a mercy, a blessing, when she knew it was as exposed to the world as the leaves on the ground around her, as raw as the split bark of the trees just starting to form in her blurry vision.

Another crunch of leaves and a clouded figure entered her line of sight, blocking out the trees. And her skin set aflame.

She screamed, and screamed, but no sound came out, and it stopped.

“My apologies, you looked cold,” a voice said, and she swallowed hard as her vision cleared and she saw the auburn hair. Flames danced on his fingertips, and a cruel smirk played on his lips.

Eris bent down over her naked body, his eyes snaking up and down, and placed a burning hand on her abdomen. “Let’s see here,” he sneered, ripping something from her middle and causing black spots in her vision. The pain was so intense, the fire burning there was no match for the utter splintering she felt in her stomach.

He chuckled, and as her vision came back, Mor saw him holding a piece of parchment, studying it with a smirk.

“‘ _Your bride, your problem_.’ Indeed. I see your father has left me a wedding gift?” He dropped the paper unceremoniously back onto her abdomen. Even that little contact caused pain to sear through her. Eris lifted his hands from her, and Mor saw blood smeared on them. Her blood.

Mor tried and failed to cough, her breathing uneven as it was, and began to shake again. The reality of her situation settled in - she was bleeding, burned, broken and tossed away in the dirt somewhere. In the Autumn Court. Her parents had left her there, disposed of like garbage, like they didn’t care one way or another whether Eris killed her, married her, or ignored her and left her for dead. She was worth that little to them, now that she could not give them what they wanted.

Eris leaned close to her face, his breath rancid in her broken nose, his hand playing in her sheared short hair. “What a powerful punishment,” he cooed, his fingers tracing down her face, burning as he made sure to touch every raw and open wound, “for ruining such a powerful alliance. Look at you, Morrigan.” Eris played with whatever was causing her pain in her abdomen - a blade, a stake, she didn’t know - and her vision went white. He chuckled, placing both burning hands on her face. She tried to turn her head away but failed, her muscles screaming in protest.

“So powerless. So vulnerable. I could take you right now if I was so inclined.” Flame licked up her arm, slowly, torturously, eating away at the bruised and damaged flesh. She tried to scream but all that came out of her was a low moan as he stood up and hovered over her. She had to fight him, she had to move-

“But no,” Eris mused, snapping as the flames died on her skin. Tears stung as they rolled down her ruined face. “I’m afraid even that is too soiled for me. You’ll die a filthy whore, Morrigan,” he moved his foot so that it was atop her hand, and stepped down, hard. Her already broken bones snapped further and pain laced through her, blinding her, sending bile into her throat. “Your bastard warrior can’t save you now. It will be a mercy for you to die."

Mor opened her mouth, rasping, “Then why don’t you end me right now?"

Eris laughed, pushing his foot into her side and causing her to arch her entire body in pain. “You don’t deserve my mercy."

Sparks danced in her vision. She felt them fall onto her, and the pain was too intense for her to remain conscious. She slipped into darkness once again.

\---------

The darkness lasted centuries. At least it felt that way.

Mor had known darkness to be constricting, suffocating, endless. It was all-powerful and commanding, unescapable, a force that kept her underground, imprisoned, chained.

But she also knew that darkness could be her solace.

The darkness could be boundless, open and opportune, as wild and free as the night sky on Starfall.

The darkness held hope, if you knew where to look, if you weren’t afraid of the unknown, like the ray of light that was Velaris in a court with a dark and dangerous reputation.

And the darkness provided comfort, soft shadows and deep calm, and familiar sense of safety she had felt in the friendship of Rhysand and his brothers.

But had she ever been safe? In her whole life, had she been truly safe for even one moment, or had this always been destined to become her fate? Was it even possible to be safe, if even the ones that were supposed to love her and care for her, her family, would lead her into the reality of the darkness of her nightmares?

 _Family_. No. Those monsters were not her family. A family protected you, cared for you. Accepted when you knew you could protect yourself, and even then still stood by you and supported you. A family was Rhysand. His mother. A family could be Cassian and Azriel, someday, if she survived this.

_Mor._

This...

_Morrigan._

This darkness was so painful. It was unlike anything she had felt in all her life. She was forced into the dark and forced to stay amongst her demons, lest she wake and face them consciously. The darkness would be her undoing.

She had to wake. She had to get back to her family.

_Morrigan. Please, please wake up._

It was dark, that voice, and laced with pain.

_Please._

But it was the darkness of freedom, of hope, of comfort. She embraced the darkness, and opened her eyes.

\----------

“Mor,” the voice sobbed, a calloused hand on her hair gently stroking as she opened her eyes. She was no longer laying directly in the dirt and leaves, though she was still on the ground, and she was wrapped in something soft. It was not night, but it was dark, a blackness surrounding her that glimmered with deep, midnight blue.

Wings.

“Az…"

A deep sigh of relief. “I’m here."

His breath caught as her eyes met his. She’d never seen him look so unhinged, his face twisted with deep concern and his eyes blazing with a fire she didn’t know him to be capable of. Not even when he’d looked at her the morning of the Incident did he show such emotion. She instinctively moved toward him, and cried out in pain.

Azriel unfurled his free hand from a fist, a bit of paper falling crumpled from his grip. It was the note from her abdomen, which he’d likely ripped and balled in his rage upon finding her. Cauldron, there was so much blood on it, she noted as it fell to the ground beside her.

He placed the hand gently on her arm, on the jacket draped over her - his jacket - steadying her, comforting her without bringing pain directly to her injured skin. “I’ve got you. Don’t move, Mor. Just stay with me.”

“Az,” she rasped, her throat burning. “Az, it hurts…"

“I know,” he said, and she knew that he did. At least, when it came to the burns.

"We don’t have a lot of time. I need to…” He took a deep breath. “I need to pick you up. We need to get you home. But first I need to remove this nail, so you can start to heal while I fly.” Azriel’s voice broke. “It’s going to hurt."

A nail. That was what was in her abdomen. A nail likely made of ash, if she wasn’t healing.

“I trust you,” she breathed.

Azriel moved to kneel beside her, his wings shifting and letting the light of late afternoon settle over her. She had no idea how long she’d been there, only that she was lucky to still be alive. Lucky that Azriel was here.

He looked at her, one hand still in her hair, cradling her head. “Try not to pass out again, okay?”

“I’ll try,” she replied, breathing as deeply as she could in anticipation. "Talk to me, Azriel. Please.”

Azriel placed a hand gingerly on the nail, and even as pain seared through her, he began to talk. He told her about learning to fly, the freedom of the open sky, and a few moments into the story, he pulled the nail out with warlike precision. She yelped, the pain blackening her vision, but his voice kept her tethered to the world. That comforting darkness, the tale of his own battle for freedom, it anchored her to reality.

Gently, Azriel slid his arms underneath her and lifted her into his arms. Her abdomen screamed, even as some of the wounds on her skin began to fade, slowly, slowly. He wrapped his jacket more tightly around her, and it covered most of her body down to her mid-thigh. As he unfurled his wings and took flight, he pierced her with his hazel eyes again.

“You’re free now, too, Morrigan,” he whispered. “You’re free."

Her healing began to hasten, the magic taking all of the energy from her ravished and exhausted body. High above the Autumn Court border, safe in Azriel’s arms, she fell back into unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be one more chapter and an epilogue (that I've been working on for months) after this! The epilogue will likely be posted as a separate fic, just because it could stand on its own.
> 
> All uphill Moriel feels from here on out.
> 
> The title of this chapter is from Ghosts That We Knew by Mumford and Sons.
> 
> Also, the "you're free" bit at the end is inspired by this headcanon that I can't get out of my brain: http://sparkleywonderful.tumblr.com/post/152308132064/youre-free


	15. I Think I Need A Sunrise

Chains on her neck, chains on her ankles, chains binding her arms to her waist. Cutting, digging, deeper and deeper until she could not feel them at all.

It was too dark to see where she was, but the chains held her in place on a hard, damp surface. She twisted and turned but she could not move, she could not even scream for help. She lay there, shaking, helpless, trapped.

Until she heard a whisper.

It was soft at first, unintelligible, but grew gradually clearer. It was still a whisper, a deep, gentle voice that spoke to her in a gentle caress of her pointed ear:

_You’re free._

“Tell me again,” she asked it.

_Morrigan. You’re free._

She believed the voice.

Slowly, Mor lifted her arms, her legs, her head from the hard surface, and she felt the chains fall away into broken bits of ash. She rubbed away the remnants sticking to her skin and stood on her feet, testing her balance. She was steady. Clear-headed, if not for the voice still whispering, chanting to her: _You’re free, you’re free, you’re free._

Mor took a step forward, then another, and another until a dim light came into view. Squinting, she picked up her pace until she found herself surrounded in the light, stepping into the bright, open room of a mountaintop palace. And she recognized it as the House of Wind, empty of people but full of hope and joy, and Mor breathed in the scent of jasmine and fresh, cold air. She smiled to herself, and, sighing, ran to the balcony she so desired to stay on for the rest of her immortal life. If she had that balcony, that city, that view of the sunset, she would be okay.

The whispering began again, and Mor looked down, only to realize there were shadows surrounding her. They were not restricting, or very dark - just wisps, a muted transparent blackness that encased her in a safety net, a comforting embrace. She let them swirl around her, up her legs and around her arms and curling over her ears to whisper again:

_Morrigan, you’re free. You’re free._

She was free. She opened her arms over the balcony’s edge and let out a laugh, a bright and beautiful laugh, and allowed the shadows to take her away.

\----------

When Mor opened her eyes, the room was brighter than she expected. Sunlight burned her vision and she closed her eyes again briefly, adjusting. The pure quiet of the room had an instant calming effect on her.

She blinked a few times, her eyelids heavy, and tried to make out her surroundings. She was laying in a bed covered with crisp, clean sheets. Her body felt stiff and achy, her skin itchy all over, but she was warm and did not move to alleviate the discomfort. A distant bird chirped, breaking the silence, and a cool breeze blew through the window-

A window. Sunlight. Fresh air.

She almost sobbed in her relief. She was not at the Hewn City.

Mor attempted to move now and coughed, sending a jolt of pain through her abdomen that kept her grounded to the bed. She groaned, closing her eyes tightly to force herself to keep from crying out.

A warm, calloused hand found hers, gently squeezing, and the pain subsided slowly.

“Mor?"

When she heard his voice, she thought of the deep, calm voice of the shadows in her dream, and a small smile spread over her lips. Opening her eyes, she found the source of that dark comfort beside her bed, the whisper that had pulled her from her nightmare, the light that had saved her from the brink of death.

Azriel let out a sharp breath when their eyes met, grasping her hand tighter, and she clutched it back. She was weak, and it hurt the skin of her wrist to hold too tightly, but she still held. She wanted to see him better, become grounded in the hazel of his eyes and the steadiness of his voice.

When Azriel saw her trying to turn her head, he rose from where he’d been kneeling at her bedside and pulled a chair up so she didn’t have to move. His gaze was soft, softer than she’d ever seen in him, and filled with relief.

“Where am I?” she whispered hoarsely, her voice a remnant of her usually bubbly tone.

“The House of Wind,” he replied in a long sigh. “You’re safe."

“Safe…"He nodded, but she needed to know more to believe it. “Where is Rhys?"

Azriel swallowed and blinked, but Mor did not miss the brief moment of rage that overcame his facial features. She almost cowered at the way his eyes hardened, the hard set of his jaw, the clenching of his teeth. The look was a vow, a promise to cause destruction. However, it faded behind shadows and a masterful guise of indifference in a single blink, as quickly as it had come.

“He and Cassian are in the Hewn City. Taking care of things,” he gritted out. The hand that wasn’t holding hers was balled into a tight fist.

“Azriel,” she murmured softly, and his tension eased as he caught her eye. "Tell me what happened,” she asked.

He thought for a moment, as if he was afraid to tell her, but started to nod slowly as she persisted in her gaze. She would not be afraid, never again, not after she’d already experienced the worst.

“I… we sensed something was wrong the day after they took you,” he started, rubbing a scarred hand over his face and pinching the bridge of his nose before continuing. “Rhysand flew to the House of Wind that afternoon and overheard his father debriefing one of his advisors about the failed alliance with Autumn. When Rhys asked the High Lord about it, asked where you were…” Again, that fist formed. "He told Rhys that you deserved to be punished, and that it was Keir’s right as your father to decide what that punishment would be. Mor, I don’t think he had any idea-” Azriel broke eye contact and spaced out to stare at the wall behind him, that rage settling over his face again. She squeezed his hand gently to let him know it was okay, that she wanted him to continue. “I don’t think he thought that Keir would do this to you,” he muttered, refocusing on her.

Mor swallowed, hard, and shifted slowly to prop herself better on the pillows. It hurt like the Mother, but she gritted her teeth and did it, because she couldn’t be laying flat on her back and listen to this next part. She still felt the chains, and the nail, and she needed to know that she had some agency over her body before Azriel told the rest of the story. His eyes stayed on her as she moved, concern rife in them, and she gave him a gentle smile as she settled into the pillows. “I’m okay,” she whispered. “Go on."

“We had no idea where they had taken you - we all assumed you were still in Autumn. None of us knew what to do. Rhys was livid, but the High Lord had banished him back to the camp for the night, and Cassian was a wreck of guilt-” Mor started shaking her head as a tear rolled down her face. “But just before dawn the next morning, I had- I woke up, and my shadows were restless. Trying to tell me something, that something was wrong. I left immediately, and decided to follow the voices of my shadows, to see if they would lead me anywhere. I flew for an entire day until they led me to the Autumn Court border... to you. When I returned with you to the camp, Rhys had already barged into the Hewn City and discovered what had happened. He winnowed us to Velaris so I could bring you to the House and a healer while he and Cassian went to show the High Lord exactly what Keir decided was an appropriate punishment.” Azriel spat her father’s name with a disgust she didn’t know he was capable of.

Mor’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment, processing the information. It was clear who truly cared whether she lived or died. Her truth had told her that much, she thought, as she was dying in the leaves in Autumn. When she opened her eyes, another tear leaking out, Azriel was looking at their hands. At his scars.

She opened her mouth to ask him if she would have scars too, but she thought better of it. He seemed to know where her thought process would go, however, and shook his head. “You should heal completely. Except…” He grimaced.

“Except for the nail,” she finished for him, feeling the lingering pain as she brushed her fingertips lightly across her stomach. She wouldn’t make him say it, considering he pulled it out, he saved her from it being far, far worse.

“Do I...” Her voice cracked, and she breathed evenly for a few moments. “Do I have to go back?” she whispered.

Azriel growled. “Never again, for as long as you live, will you have to go back there unless you voluntarily decide to. Rhys will demand at least that much from the High Lord."

She nodded absently, letting it sink in. She was free from the court of her nightmares, and yet it didn’t feel like the victory she thought it would. Everything was too raw, her injuries, her pride, her fear, and she knew it would be a long time before she felt the independence and the freedom she so desperately craved a few days ago. Mor knew it would be an uphill battle.

Mor looked down at their joined hands again and began to trace Azriel's scars with her free hand. She felt him tense slightly, but he did not pull away as her finger ran up the length of his forefinger, down the back of his hand, swirling around his wrists. “Thank you,” she breathed. “Thank you for saving me."

Azriel only nodded, watching the path of her fingers on his. She wasn’t sure he was breathing until he spoke, quietly, almost inaudibly.

“You don’t need to talk about it now,” he uttered, head still down, those glorious wings drooping behind him. “You never have to talk about what they did to you, not if you don’t want to. But as someone who understands-” He pulled away his hand suddenly and stood up, his face set in determination.

Mor realized then that he was dressed fully in fighting leathers, Illyrian weapons strapped to his body, Siphons glowing faintly against the black of his sleeves. As if he was readying for war. “If you want them dead, Mor, say the word,” he declared, reaching behind him and unsheathing his blade, the unnamed one, the one that rested beside him as he slept. He knelt down beside the bed and held it out to her. “I swear to you that anyone who harms you will fall at the hands of his blade."

The room was silent for a long moment, and Azriel’s shadows were the only movement. She admired the blade, how it shone as if Azriel honed it for battle every morning, how the sunlight bounced off of it and reflected back to his darkness.

“I heard your voice,” she said, looking up.

Azriel almost faltered, and Mor noticed in the slight tremor of his hands. He raised an eyebrow in silent question.

“When I was- when I was dying,” she whispered. One of Azriel’s shadows curled around the blade as she spoke. “I heard you. Telling me to wake up. I was going toward the darkness but… your voice. It led me back. Something, my truth, maybe… told me it was freedom."

Azriel only looked down at the blade, back to her, and said, "Truth-teller."

Mor smiled.

And burst into sobbing tears.

In a moment, the blade had returned to his back, and Azriel’s hand was in hers again. He knew better than to crowd her, to take her broken and healing body in his arms, to say anything. He simply gave her an anchor to latch onto as she cried. Mor cried until she had no tears left, until fatigue and exhaustion pulled her back down and into a dreamless sleep.

\---------

A set of heavy footsteps and a creak of her door woke her.

“Az?” she muttered sleepily.

“If you’re awfully disappointed, I can fetch him from where he’s lingering in the hallway like a guard dog,” Rhysand drawled after shutting the door behind him. Mor managed a small half-smile as her cousin took the seat beside her bed, like a king at his throne.

One day soon, hopefully, she would see Rhysand on the throne of the Night Court. A male who would rule with kindness and justice, a male who cared for his people. For the first time in a very, very long while, her heart felt lighter.

“No. No, I’m sorry Rhys,” she groaned as she adjusted herself to sit up in her bed. It was much less painful than it had been hours ago. "It’s just - he’s been here. He - he saved me."

Rhys leaned back, crossing his arms. “Indeed."

“Why?"

Rhys huffed a small laugh. Mor could tell he didn’t have it in him to be his teasing, jesting self right now. “I didn’t give him an order, if that’s what you’re asking. He went of his own accord, while Cassian and I were trying to wring it out of your pict cousins.” He grimaced. "I’m grateful that he did, but that was his choice and his alone."

Mor could tell that Azriel was the protective type, that he would fight for what was right, that he would never be tolerant of a family abusing and discarding one of their own. He had his own experience with that, and she understood his anger. But something in the way his voice had broken upon finding her, something in his quiet ease around her and the way his shadows flitted to nothing, something in the way she felt compelled to him… She had only known him for two weeks. He sacrificed his own safety for hers, pledged his blade to her revenge. She had never known a male like Azriel.

Some emotion must have shown on her face, because Rhys shot her a pointed look.

Mor laughed softly, slapping at his hand. “Don’t give me that look. I think I’ll pass on any of your friends for the next several centuries."

“Mor-"

“No, Rhys,” she protested, grabbing for his hand now, and he took it without hesitation. "I saw how it broke you. All three of you. And now that you’ve all begun to heal- I can’t be responsible for that again. Don’t ask me to be.”

Rhys only narrowed his eyes at her and waited for her to break. She would not. She had just been used, abused, and tossed after a betrothal to another male - she needed time for herself to heal. “I’m okay,” she pressed on. “Promise. Can I lie?"

Her smile elicited a small chuckle from Rhys, and she considered it a win. “I guess not, cousin,” he replied. He squeezed her hand and she squeezed it back, a wave of gratitude for her cousin washing over her.

“I want to show you something,” Rhys said suddenly, standing from his chair. “Are you well enough for me to fly you somewhere?"

Mor shifted in her seat. Mild pain still plagued her abdomen, whether actual or phantom she didn’t know. But other than that, she felt okay, so she nodded.

Rhys picked her up gently, as if she would break any moment. Snapping her fingers and trying her magic for the first time since… before, she magicked her nightgown into flying-appropriate clothing. She felt more than saw Rhys roll his eyes at the fact that still managed to make herself look glamorous for a simple flight through the city.

Stepping unceremoniously off the bedroom balcony, Rhys took flight, and the cold winter air hit Mor like a violent blast of magic. She breathed it in, letting it sting her lungs as they soared through the air, letting it purge her of her pain and her hurt and her thoughts. All that Mor knew was the wind, the slight drizzle of rain on her cheeks, and the vast City of Starlight rushing by beneath her.

Velaris. Would this be her home now? Would she start a life here, have adventures here, find peace here? How long would it take for her to be able to dance with the street performers again, lean over the balcony at the House of Wind and feel the sunlight on her face, walk the streets of the Rainbow without fear of her family coming to find her?

But, no. She would not, could not, let them win, let them take this one thing from her that she loved more than anything in the world. Velaris. Her city, her dreams turned reality, her home.

Rhys landed only moments after Mor realized they were descending, and his feet hit the rooftop of a building on the outskirts of the city. He conjured a blanket and sat her down gently on the roof, joining her at the edge.

Mor’s breathing hitched as she took in the Sidra just beyond the roofs of the various buildings surrounding them. It was breathtaking at this time of the afternoon, the sun sinking lower on the horizon to brighten the many ships that sailed on its waters. Mor could hardly peel her eyes from it to take in the rest of her surroundings, but found only residential townhomes around them.

“What is this building?” she asked.

Rhys only smirked at her, and turned his head back toward the river. “I guess I should have taken you to the front door, but this view is my favorite.” He was silent for a few moments and Mor waited patiently for the answer to her question. If she was being honest, she could sit up here for years and never tire of the view.

“This is your safe place, Mor."

She turned her head toward her cousin, her brows raised. “Mine?"

“Well, ours,” he clarified, catching her gaze finally. "But you can have it to yourself for now, if you want."

Mor stared at him for a few moments, unable to comprehend exactly what he was saying. “You got us a _house_?"

Rhys simply nodded. “I know a few people. And you need a place to live, now that you never have to return to that wretched court for as long as you wish."

“I-“ Mor felt a tear fall down her face as she shook her head incredulously. She couldn’t think of anything to say at the moment, her shock and her gratitude and her happiness was so profound. But she knew Rhys understood her, so she simply leaned forward and pulled him into a hug, spilling tears onto his shirt.

"Only you or I can winnow in here,” Rhys said as they pulled apart, Mor wiping tears from her eyes. “And only guests we desire may enter. I can keep it that way, or I can give Cassian and Azriel access, if that makes you feel safer-"

“No,” Mor said, sniffing. “If it’s ours, it’s ours. And I want to be able to keep myself safe, anyway.”

Her cousin smiled, silently regarding her for a moment, before setting his face in a mask of seriousness. “Mor, I want to promise you something. When I am High Lord, I am going to change the Night Court into a different sort of Court. One that treats its people as they should be treated. One that thrives on prosperity, and not the miserable power politics of the Hewn City. I am going to turn this Court into one that Prythian has never seen before…” He paused. “A Court of Dreams."

Mor held his hand tighter. “And I promise to be right by your side. To help you achieve that."

Mor and Rhysand looked back out at Velaris as the sun began to set. A few weeks ago they had been in the same place, in this city, watching the sunset from a balcony at the House of Wind. It seemed like millennia had passed, like a whole lifetime ago she had woken up that day from a nightmare about having her first bleeding.

And while her nightmares would be a lot worse now, she would always have her dream. She would always have Velaris.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was a pipe dream I had this summer after finishing ACOMAF, something I really wanted to see but something I wasn't sure I could write. and here we are. three and a half months and 34,000 words later and I've finished my first ever multi-chapter fic. 
> 
> thank you from the very bottom of my heart for joining me on this journey. your kudos and comments have kept me going, and I am so grateful to every single person who has read this mor prequel.
> 
> to thank you all, THERE IS AN EPILOGUE. I have posted it as a separate fic here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/8575999
> 
> chapter title is named for lyrics from Boston by Augustana.


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